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onlyforwoosan · 2 months ago

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Wicked, Wild, and Yours— ℧

Pairing: Choi San (Outlaw Hunter!AU) × Female Outlaw Reader (Enemies to Obsession)

Wordcount: 4.8k

Synopsis: You’re a wanted outlaw. He’s the bounty hunter sent to catch you — but San doesn’t want the reward. He wants you. One chase, one fight, and one night where he makes sure you never run again.

Genre: Smut, Dark Western Romance, Enemies to Lust to Something Else, Outlaw Hunter!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Dominant behavior, Gun violence, Knife use, Blood, Hair pulling, Dirty talk (degrading & possessive), Overstimulation, Handcuffs, Emotionally charged tension, Light gore (during fight scenes), Power play (consensual)

The night was quiet—too quiet for your liking.

The bar was mostly dead, except for the usual drunks and card players who were too broke to leave. Oil lamps flickered across creaky floorboards, casting a soft golden light over the worn mahogany bar. You wiped down the same glass for the fifth time, listening to the low hum of murmured conversation and the occasional thump of boots on wood.

Then you heard him.

The sharp clack of spurs hitting the porch. The heavy sound of a man who walked like he owned the dirt beneath his feet. You turned your head just in time to see him tie up his horse, one hand adjusting the brim of his dark hat, the other resting near the holster on his hip like it belonged there.

And then he walked in.

Choi San.

You froze.

Your breath caught, fingers locking around the glass as he strolled through the doorway. The man was sin carved in leather and bone, his coat swaying behind him like the wings of death itself. He waved to a few folks who recognized him—either too stupid or too scared to avoid his gaze. A hunter. The kind of man people whispered about in other outlaw camps. The kind who didn't take prisoners.

You'd seen posters of him before. "Bounty hunter. Ruthless. Gets the job done." You thought he looked dangerous in the sketches.

But nothing prepared you for the real thing.

Your heart pounded harder than it should’ve. You couldn’t tell if it was panic or... something worse.

He didn’t glance at anyone else. Just walked right up to the bar and sat down directly in front of you. When he finally looked up, straight into your eyes—it was like he was already aiming.

"Evenin'," he said smoothly.

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Evenin’.” He tipped his head slightly, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle. “You new in town?”

You kept your tone neutral, your face still. “Been around.”

“Hm.” His eyes flickered with interest. “You don’t sound local.”

You shrugged. “A lotta folks ain’t.”

He smiled then—slow, deliberate, and just shy of cocky. “Fair enough. Whiskey. Neat.”

You turned your back to pour the drink, your hands moving automatically. But your mind was racing. What the fuck is he doing here?

Choi San didn’t just wander into towns like this. He hunted—tracked people down, flushed them out. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions unless he already knew the answers.

And you... were most definitely on someone's list.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it felt like your lungs were trying to crawl up your throat. He couldn’t possibly know who you were, right? You’d changed your hair. Wore different clothes. You were careful, goddammit.

But not careful enough.

You’d been caught once. Only once. That was all it took to get your face on a poster. And San? He didn’t miss.

You brought the drink over and set it down in front of him. “Here.” He took a sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, “I’ve seen a lotta faces. Yours… looks mighty familiar.”

Your throat dried up. “Do it?” you managed. He nodded, eyes sharp now. “Mm. Got one of those looks. Dangerous. Pretty.”

You flushed—goddammit, get a grip—and quickly glanced away, pretending to busy yourself with the bar rag.

“Where’d you say you were from again?” he added, voice light but laced with meaning.

“I didn’t.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Feisty.”

You forced a polite smile, muttered something about checking stock, and excused yourself to the back.

The saloon’s back room was hazy with smoke and dust. You slipped in, shutting the door behind you, your chest rising and falling fast. “Haechan!” you hissed.

Your partner in crime—both literally and figuratively—was leaned against the back wall, cigarette hanging from his lips and a bottle of bourbon in his hand.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing you. “What crawled up your—”

“San’s here.”

That made him freeze… He took the cigarette out of his mouth slowly. “The bounty hunter?”

You nodded. “He’s at the bar. He looked right at me. I think he knows.”

Haechan cursed under his breath. “You said he was on the other side of the territory. How the hell did he find us this fast?”

“I don’t know! Maybe someone ratted, maybe I slipped up.” You grabbed your head. “God, Haechan—he’s gonna kill me. You’ve heard what he does.”

He studied you for a second, serious now. “Then don’t give him the chance. Get out. Go out the back, take the alley, and run.”

You hesitated. “We said no splitting up.”

“We also said don’t get caught,” he shot back. “You’re the one they have posters of. You got made. I didn’t. I’ll cover for you if I can, but you’ve gotta move.”

You peeked through the crack in the door. San was still at the bar. Still watching. Like he knew. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip—then winked at you.

Your stomach dropped. Haechan stepped closer. “Go. Now.” You turned, breath shaky, every instinct screaming to bolt. But something held you there. Fear? Curiosity? Or the heat that still lingered in your skin from the way his eyes had trailed over you?

No. You had to focus. You straightened your spine, took one last look at Haechan, and pushed back through the door.

Back at the bar, San looked completely at ease, fingers tapping against the rim of his glass. You swallowed hard and approached. “Sorry about that. Had to check something.”

“All good,” he replied smoothly. “We were just getting to the fun part anyway.”

You arched a brow. “Fun part?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “The part where you tell me your name. The real one.”

Your blood turned cold.

You stared at him, trying to find something casual to say, some smart remark, but your mouth wouldn’t move.. He smirked and reached into his coat. That was all it took… You bolted.

You didn’t wait to see what he was reaching for—gun, badge, poster—you weren’t about to find out. You shoved through the back door, hit the alley running, heart pounding, boots skidding across the dirt. You vaulted over a crate, ducked under a fence, and disappeared into the night.

Behind you, you heard the door slam open and a voice shout, “Shit—!”

You didn’t look back.

By the time San got to the alley, the only thing left was the echo of your boots and the swirling dust in the wind.

He stood there for a moment, glaring into the dark.

Then he smiled.

“She’s fast,” he muttered, already mounting his horse. “But not fast enough.”

Three days had passed since you vanished into the night, slipping through San’s fingers like smoke.

Three fucking days.

He wasn’t used to people getting away—especially not pretty little things who blushed under his stare and ran before he could even finish his sentence.

Now, the hunter was the one being haunted.

San rode through the outskirts of the dusty town under the silver sheen of moonlight. His horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against the dirt trail, a low wind stirring the brush. He had one hand on the reins, the other holding a small, battered communicator—cheap tech smuggled in from an old mining town. Outlaws didn’t trust satellites, but he and Woo had their ways.

“You still on her trail?” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through the speaker.

San sighed. “Yeah. She’s hiding good.”

“No shit. You let her run, remember?” San scowled at his best friend's comment. “She was fast.”

“She was hot,” Woo corrected, laughing.

San didn’t say anything. “Oh my god,” Wooyoung continued, smug as hell. “You do think she’s hot.”

“I said she was fast.”

“You said she was cute first. Then fast.”

There was a pause. San sighed again. “She was cute,” he admitted under his breath, just loud enough for Wooyoung to hear.

“Bro.” Wooyoung practically screamed. “Are you catching feelings for a felon?”

“She’s not just a felon,” San said. “She’s... wanted. Like—seriously wanted.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

San rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “I’m just saying... she’s interesting. I usually don’t remember faces. I can’t stop remembering hers.”

Woo whistled. “You gonna kill her?”

“...I don’t know yet.”

San hung up before Woo could answer. And then he heard it.

Voices—angry. Shouts. The sharp echo of a gunshot.

He clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, guiding his horse toward the source. A moment later, he spotted movement ahead.

A fight. No—a brawl.

Three figures. You, some guy beside you—firing back-to-back—and a third, dressed in outlaw hunter gear. The third was large, bleeding from the shoulder, but still charging.

You.

San’s stomach flipped. His hand went to the revolver at his side.

You had a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Your lip was bleeding, dirt on your skin, your shirt torn at the shoulder. You looked fucking feral—cornered, animal-like, panting as you turned and stabbed the hunter in the side. He grunted and backhanded you hard enough to knock you against the rocks.

San didn’t think.

He jumped off the horse mid-gallop, landing hard and rolling once before rising with his gun already drawn.

Haechan noticed him first.

San caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes before the kid bolted, disappearing behind a cluster of crumbling mining shacks.

You—bloodied, dazed—shoved yourself up from the ground and screamed after him, “You fucking coward!”

And then you turned—and froze.

San stood there, silhouetted in moonlight, revolver drawn and pointed—not at you, but at the hunter who had just recovered and was turning back around.

The man squinted at San. “This ain’t your business, bounty—”

Bang.

San shot him in the thigh. Then again, in the shoulder. The man dropped, screaming.

You stood in stunned silence, barely able to breathe. Your ears were ringing, your head pounding. Blood dripped from your chin. You watched San approach you slowly, holstering his gun like nothing had happened.

You stumbled backward. “What the hell—”

He grabbed you by the wrist before you could bolt.

“Nope. Learned that trick last time.”

With a swift motion, he yanked a pair of worn steel cuffs from his belt and clink—latched one around your wrist. The other he clipped to a leather strap on his horse’s saddle nearby.

“What the fuck, San?!” you spat, struggling.

“You ran once. Not again.” His voice was low, sharp, like a blade gliding against skin.

You tried to pull away, but the chain only rattled. “You just killed him!”

“He was gonna kill you.”

“I had it under control—!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. pissed.

“Your face says otherwise,” San growled, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

His thumb brushed your split lip, slow, deliberate.

You winced—but didn’t pull away.

The tension between you thickened instantly, charged and volatile. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was firm. Commanding. The way he looked at you wasn’t like a hunter and prey—it was something darker. Needier.

“You alright?” he asked, quieter now. He was a little guilty from snarling at you.

You stared at him, stunned. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” His eyes flicked down to your mouth. “Just don’t want damaged goods.”

“Wow. Charming.”

He smirked and released your chin. He turned toward the hunter, who was now crawling away, blood trailing behind him. San didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his second pistol and walked right up behind the man.

“Please—” the hunter gasped.

Bang.

You flinched. The sound echoed through the hills, and then silence.

San returned to you calmly, like he’d just taken out the trash. You sat in stunned silence, chained to his fucking horse, blood on your lip, your stomach twisted.

He kneeled in front of you again, this time slower, his movements careful.

“Next time,” he murmured, “don’t get caught in the dark.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were outnumbered.”

“I had Haechan—”

“Your boyfriend, who ran?” San snorted. “Yeah. Real dependable.”

You look disgusted. Haechan was most definitely not your boyfriend. He would never be. “Ew! He's my best friend!” You snapped back at him. He looked a little surprised but was kind of happy. Maybe he had a chance..

“My bad, Y/N…”

You glared at him, cheeks flushed with rage. How dare he even use your name? “You think you’re so much better than everyone else because you’ve got guns and a goddamn horse?”

He leaned in close. “No. I think I’m better because I don’t leave people behind.”

You stopped talking. The words hit something raw in you. Something unspoken. Maybe something you’d tried not to feel for years.

San rose, tugging gently on the chain that led to your wrist. “Let’s go.”

You scowled. “What, now?”

“Unless you’d rather sleep next to a corpse.”

You rolled your eyes but stood, dragging your feet. He helped you onto his horse roughly, but not painfully. One hand on your hip, another guiding your thigh up. You yelped when the saddle caught your bruised leg, and he smirked.

“Sensitive, huh?”

“Go to hell.”

“You first, sweetheart.”

He climbed up behind you, his chest pressed to your back, one hand firmly holding the reins, the other lightly resting on your waist.

“You don’t need to hold me like that,” you muttered.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Just don’t want you falling.”

And with that, he clicked the horse into motion.

The ride was brutal at first—every gallop jostled your aching body. You bit your lip to avoid making a sound, even as you bounced against him, your back slamming into his chest.

When he sped up suddenly, you let out a sharp gasp.

“Easy,” he chuckled. “Didn’t take you for the jumpy type.”

“I’m bleeding, you dick.”

“You’re alive,” he replied smoothly.

The wind picked up, cold and sharp, stinging the open cut on your lip. You winced, and he must’ve felt it.

“You sure you okay?” he asked.

“Why are you being nice?”

“I’m not.”

“Right. Just a bounty to you, huh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softer than before: “Not just.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. His face was unreadable in the moonlight, but there was something in his eyes—something unsettling. Like, even he wasn’t sure what he meant.

You faced forward again, heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears The rest of the ride was silent. But you could feel him—every breath, every muscle shift, every time his gloved fingers brushed your waist or gripped the reins just a little tighter when you leaned back too far.

And worst of all?

You didn’t hate it.

The ride to San’s hideout was long, but the tension made it feel shorter.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t talk. And San didn’t offer explanations.

The horse slowed just before dawn, stopping at a secluded ranch tucked behind a dead patch of forest. Weather-worn fencing framed the property, and the barn looked half-collapsed. But the house—it was quiet, sturdy, and unsettlingly normal. Too normal for a man who just shot someone in the skull two hours ago.

San dismounted first, then helped you down—not with kindness, but with control.

His fingers didn’t linger, but his eyes did.

He pulled the chain on your cuff taut and led you up the porch. The door creaked as it opened, revealing a dim interior filled with dust, warm light, and weapons. Guns lined the walls in neat rows. A single table sat under a bare bulb, with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

No Wooyoung.

You noticed.

San locked the door behind you. “He’s gone,” he muttered. “Bar hopping. Or fucking someone. Or both.”

You didn’t say anything, but you did blush a little.. Fuck– you blushed a lot.

You just kept scanning the space, taking note of the exits. Of the heavy boots by the door. Of the butcher knife, half-cleaned in the sink.

San watched your eyes track everything. “Smart girl,” he said. “But don’t bother. You run, I’ll just find you again.”

You glared. “You cuffed me to a horse.”

He smirked. “You looked cute like that.”

You scowled, but before you could respond, he grabbed your arm and dragged you further inside, pushing you down into a wooden chair near the table. He crouched in front of you, eyes locked on yours, fingers gripping your chin again.

“Let’s try this again.”

You didn’t resist—but you didn’t look at him, either.

“I wanna know who you were working with. Names. Routes. Safehouses.”

You scoffed. “Like I’d give you shit.”

He tilted his head. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

He grinned slowly. “You’re not leaving here unless I say so.”

You bristled. But something in your stomach flipped again—something sharp and dangerous and unwanted. He’s insane, you thought. But then he said—

“You thirsty?”

You blinked.

“What?”

San stood and reached for a nearby jug of water. He poured some into a clean glass and set it down in front of you.

You stared at it, confused.

“What the fuck? You were just being an ass.”

He chuckled. “I was always being an ass. Doesn’t mean I won’t give you water.”

You didn’t trust it, but you were parched. You grabbed it and drank. The metal of your cuffs clicked as you shifted. San sat down across from you, one ankle propped over his knee. He watched you sip, then spoke casually.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I should kill you. Would make my job easier.”

You tensed.

“But…” He leaned forward, eyes dragging over your body. “There’s another option.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What. A deal?”

He smiled darkly. “No. A punishment.”

Your heart jumped. “The fuck is that supposed to mean—”

His voice dropped low, sultry and razor-sharp. “Punishment like fucking that sweet pussy of yours until you forget your name.”

Heat exploded in your face. “You’re insane.”

“You’re wet.”

“Fuck you—”

“Exactly.”

He stood and crossed the room. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Your body was frozen—but not from fear. From want.

He returned with a small key and crouched beside you again. “I’ll unlock the cuffs. But if you run, I’ll catch you. And next time, I won’t be gentle.”

He unlocked the chain.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t want to.

He stood again and offered his hand. “Your choice,” he said, voice low and rough. “Out that door… or to my bed.”

You stared at him, then glanced at the door. You didn’t move. “Thought so.”

He took your wrist, pulled you up, and led you down a hallway. His room was worse than you expected. Dark wood walls. An unmade bed. Guns everywhere. Antlers mounted above the headboard. Shelves lined with bullets, whiskey bottles, and half-ripped wanted posters.

You paused—because three of those posters were yours. One was pinned near the bed. And it was stained.You didn’t ask what the white smear was.

San noticed you looking.

He smirked, leaned in behind you, and whispered, “Got real familiar with you before I met you.”

You swallowed hard.

His hand slid around your waist. The other gripped your shoulder.

He bent you over the edge of the bed, body flush to yours, breath hot on your ear.

“No more talking.”

Then the rip.

He grabbed the back of your shirt and tore it straight down the spine, fabric splitting like paper. Your bra snapped loose seconds later. You gasped, but his palm was already on your back, keeping you bent.

He dropped to his knees behind you, fingers roughly yanking your pants down to your thighs. He didn’t prep. Didn’t pause. You felt him move behind you, heard the telltale crack of a condom being torn open.

Then—

One hard thrust.

You screamed—half in shock, half in need.

“Shhh.. i’ve got you..” he growled, voice hot at your shoulder. “You can take it.”

“F- fuck!” You moaned as he slammed into you again, then again, his hips snapping rough against yours, one hand buried in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he owned you. You couldnt lie, you loved it. Him treating you like this.

“Fuckin’ tight little outlaw cunt,” he grunted. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

You moaned through gritted teeth, body on fire, legs trembling. “S–sannie..”

“You like being bent over like a prize?” he snarled. “Like a bounty?”

You didn’t answer—so he spanked you. Hard. You cried out, biting the sheets.

“Answer me, baby..”

“Yes,” you hissed. “Yes—fuck—yes.”

He fucked you harder.

No mercy. No pause.

He filled you like he was trying to ruin you from the inside out, rough and fast and filthy. He whispered the nastiest shit in your ear—how good your pussy felt, how pretty you sounded begging, how much he was going to fuck you until you couldn’t walk.

Your voice cracked as you tried to breathe his name, hips trembling under the weight of his body.

“S–Sannie…”

It came out broken, high and desperate. You weren’t even sure if you were begging him to stop or begging for more. The sound of it made him still for just a second — just long enough for him to lower his chest against your back, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to hold you close.

His breath was warm at your ear, the edge in his voice softening.

“There she is…” he murmured, lips grazing your temple. “My sweet girl.”

You whimpered again, tears clinging to your lashes. “I–I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he said, quieter now, but no less intense. “You’re takin’ me so well. So perfect… you were made for this. Made for me.”

His thrusts slowed — deep and steady now — more like he was savoring you, not just claiming you. His fingers tangled with yours over the sheets, his other hand rubbing soothing circles over your ribs as you tried to catch your breath.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “All messed up for me. Cryin’ for me.”

You nodded shakily, voice trembling, “S–Sannie… it’s too much.. G–gonna cum.”

He kissed your shoulder, moving gently now — hips rolling slow and thick inside you, coaxing every gasp and moan from your throat.

“I know, baby,” he said. “But I’ve got you. You don’t gotta run anymore. You’re safe now… right here with me.”

And with the way his arms wrapped around you, the way his voice dipped into something raw and real, you almost believed him.

Your legs almost gave out—but he held you up, cock driving into you over and over until you were trembling, moaning his name in broken gasps.

When your body clenched and you came hard around him, he cursed, pulled out, and flipped you over.

“On my lap.”

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you into his lap, straddling him as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He was already hard again. Already rolling another condom on.

You whimpered.

He grabbed your hips and slammed you down onto him.

You gasped—eyes wide, back arching.

He leaned forward, grabbed his cowboy hat, and placed it on your head.

“There,” he smirked. “Now you look real pretty.”

You couldn’t speak.

You just rode him—driven by some fever you couldn’t explain, some need that had been burning for days. He held your waist and fucked up into you, your bodies slamming together, the hat slipping down your forehead.

He groaned every time you clenched, every time you whispered his name, every time you lost rhythm and whimpered into his neck.

“Naughty fuckin’ little outlaw,” he breathed. “Could’ve been mine this whole time.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“And you’re soaked.”

You shuddered.

He let you ride him until your thighs burned and your legs collapsed. Your forehead stayed pressed to his as your hips moved faster, his hands gripping you tighter like he was trying to anchor both of you. San's breath was ragged, warm puffs against your mouth as he looked at you — not just your body, but you.

“I’m close,” you whispered, voice barely holding together, “Sannie, I—”

His hands slid up your back, one curling into your hair, tugging gently to tilt your face to his. “I know, baby. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Your fingers dug into his chest as you ground down on him harder, chasing that high that sat right on the edge of every nerve in your body. His mouth brushed yours — not quite a kiss, just breath and warmth and the tremble of restraint in him.

“That’s it,” he whispered again, voice thick. “Ride it out for me. Take everything I give you.”

You cried out his name — sharp and breathless — as your body finally broke, pleasure rolling through you like a wave that knocked the air from your lungs. You clung to him, gasping, the world spinning around you as your muscles tensed and fluttered with each pulse of release.

San groaned deep in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he bucked up into you once, twice, chasing his own edge. “You’re perfect,” he choked out. “So fucking perfect.”

Then he pulled you fully against his chest, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge — body shuddering, breath caught between a curse and your name.

Then he laid you down.

The bed creaked as he hovered over you, finally slow, finally controlled.

He kissed your neck once—just once.

Then he slid into you again, slow and deep.

You gasped, already sensitive.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.”

This time, he didn’t pound you.

He rolled his hips with care, like he was learning your body. His hand found yours and pinned it over your head, his other hand gripping your jaw as he looked into your eyes.

“You were always gonna be mine,” he murmured.

Your lips parted.

You believed him.

And when you came again—shaking and breathless—he followed you, burying his face in your neck as his body tensed and trembled against yours.

“I’ve got you, sweetie..” He murmured in your ear.. You held onto his biceps.. Your eyes starting to close…

The bed was cold.

San’s hand dragged across the sheets as his eyes blinked open, muscles sore and head fuzzy from a sleep that felt far too short. The room was quiet—too quiet. No footsteps. No smartass remarks. No soft, sleepy breaths beside him.

He sat up quickly, heart already racing.

You were gone.

The cuffs were off. The door hadn’t slammed. You’d slipped out quietly, like smoke through a crack in the wall.

He cursed under his breath and scanned the room. That’s when he saw it:

A folded note, sitting crooked on the nightstand, weighted down by one of your spent bullets—small, but unmistakably yours.

He stared at it for a moment, jaw tight.

Then picked it up.

The paper smelled faintly like you—leather, dirt, and something sweeter underneath. He unfolded it carefully, like if he opened it too fast you might vanish for good.

Your handwriting spilled across the page, messy but confident.

“Morning, cowboy. Didn’t mean to disappear without a kiss. You were snoring too loud.”

“Don’t get your ego all twisted. Last night wasn’t a surrender—it was a draw. A damn good one, though.”

“I liked the way you touched me like you owned me. Even if I don’t belong to anyone… not really.”

“You’re dangerous. All coiled muscle and rough hands and a mouth that makes it impossible to think straight. Guess that’s why I didn’t shoot you when I had the chance.”

“But I’m not good at staying. Never was. Never tried to be. There’s always a bounty, always someone chasing me, always another dusty town to disappear into.”

“Still… you felt different. Even if I won’t say it out loud.”

“And maybe I’m stupid for leaving. Maybe I’m scared. Maybe both.”

“But if you find me again—really find me—”

“I’ll stay.”

“Because for all my running, I think I’ve been yours since the second you walked into that bar.”

—Yours. Always.”

“p.s .. I love you.”

San didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The note trembled slightly in his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, marked up with scratches and bites you’d left behind. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes locked on the paper like it might say more if he just stared long enough.

She’s gone, he thought.

But she’s not lost.

He folded the note gently and tucked it inside his coat—right next to his heart. Then he grabbed his belt, holstered his revolver, and headed for the door.

There was only one thought in his mind now.

He wasn’t mad. Not even close.

Because now?

He had a reason to hunt you again...

1K notes · View notes

trulyumai · 9 months ago

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unfit and disloyal

Pairing: Emperor Geta / Wife! Reader

Synopsis: Seeing your husband get so close with another woman, you confront him. But such an accusation of disloyalty makes anger swell up bubble beneath his skin. Until eventually it oozes out and onto you, his darling wife.

Warnings: Geta gets violent, angry.

A/N: This was highly requested, thank you all so much for the messages and comments!

A glass was thrown, shattered against the back wall of the chamber. Geta let out a surprised cry, still bent towards the ground in the quick action that fled his senses. He had expected a hug, maybe a kiss of welcome from his pretty wife.

“You idiot—you fool! You... you—!”

Another cup was already in your hands, and Geta barely made it behind a merciful beam that splayed out in the middle of the room.

“What are you doing, wife?!” Geta’s voice was hoarse with confusion as he peered from behind the pillar, his chest rising and falling from the sudden burst of chaos. He had prepared himself for an evening of peace after the long day—he had not been ready for war within his own walls. Where was his sweet wife to dote on him? To kiss and smother his face with little pecks, to hug his frame like it was the missing piece you were waiting for?

“What am I doing?" you snarled. "What am I doing?" Your hands shook with fury as dainty fingers fumbled for another object to throw. Your eyes, usually soft and full of warmth, were now blazing with a fire he had never seen before. “You dare to ask me that when I saw you with her? You let her touch you, let her throw herself on you like—like a dog in heat!”

Geta’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall how you could have come to such a conclusion. Woman? What woman? He was with you all night! The only time he wasn’t was when you had stepped away after the dessert had been devoured, kissing his cheek as you uttered a tired departure.

He meant to follow, but decided to finish his goblet first—and then it hit him. The realization sank in. The woman who had placed herself upon his knee, whispered generous actions and promises without batting an eye.

"Her? You mean the woman at the celebration?" He stepped out from behind the beam cautiously, raising his hands in surrender. A laugh already escaping him from such a deluded thought. “She meant nothing. Less than nothing. She was dealt with, pretty wife, without a second thought!”

You scoffed, laughter bitter and sharp. "Nothing? You looked like you were enjoying yourself, while I stood there, watching, like a fool. And in front of the citizens... Have you no shame, husband?" The words were spat with venom, the kind of harshness only Geta had spoken with before.

Geta’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “You left before you saw what happened next. I pushed her off the moment you turned away, threw her to the ground like the vermin she was for daring to disrespect you.” He took a step closer, trying to close the distance between you. “I grabbed her by the face and told her to remember her place—unless she wished to be charged with treason. Wife, trust me, I beg of you.”

Your grip faltered, and the third cup clattered to the floor. Your breathing was uneven, the anger mingling with something else now—uncertainty. “Then why didn’t you stop her sooner? Why did you let her touch you in the first place? Why bestow such a public betrayal onto me?”

Geta’s shoulders sagged. He was exhausted, emotionally worn from the day’s battles, and now here he was, fighting the one person he loved most. The shift in the air was palpable now, the sting of your words pressing further into his skin. The thought of you doubting him, even for a moment, sparked something darker within him. His eyes darkened, and his fists clenched at his sides.

“You accuse me of betrayal?” His voice, though low at first, began to rise, sharp and jagged as he stepped closer, each footfall deliberate. “You think I’d ever choose someone else over you?” The fury in his tone rattled the air between you, and his body towered over yours now, his shadow swallowing the small frame you stood in.

His breath came fast and heavy as he drew closer, his face inches from yours. “Do you know what kind of man you married? The kind who would crush anyone who dared stand between us!” His words came like thunder, reverberating against the stone walls, spit flying from his mouth in his rage. “I've killed men, burned them at the stake, slit their throats for weaker words. Yet you still sit there.. And look at me with such animosity, hm?”

Your body recoiled instinctively, shrinking away from his imposing presence. For the first time, there was fear in your eyes—fear of him. Geta’s breath hitched at the sight of you trembling beneath his gaze. He froze, his fury draining as quickly as it had flared. He blinked, his body suddenly stiff as realization set in.

He had never meant to frighten you.

“I didn’t...” He swallowed, running a hand through his hair, his jaw still clenched tight. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stood frozen, still shaken, your breath shallow. Geta took a step back, releasing a slow breath as he fought to control himself, his fists relaxing at his sides. “Pretty wife, listen to me,” he rasped, voice now gentler, though it trembled. “I was angry. But not at you. Never at you.”

“But you said-”

“I know.” He interrupted, already regret bit at the seams of his mind. He didn't need a reminder.

Ringed fingers reached for your cheek, gently wiping away the spit that had landed on your skin. “I would never hurt you. You know that, don’t you?” His voice was soft, desperate, as though each word were pulling him further from the edge of the abyss he had been teetering on.

You looked at him, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “I saw you with her,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “And for a moment, I believed it. All the rumors. The lies. I believed you had chosen someone else.”

Geta’s heart clenched. He could see it now—how fragile your faith had become. He stepped closer, cupping your face with his large, calloused hands. “Never,” he breathed. “There is no one else for me. There never will be.”

You looked up at him, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Then why does it feel like I’m always competing with the world for you?”

His chest tightened, the weight of your words sinking in. “You aren’t competing. There’s no contest. I may belong to Rome, to the battlefield, to the politics of the Empire... but my heart, my soul, they belong to you.”

You searched his face for a long moment, and the anger finally faded, giving way to vulnerability. Letting out a shaky breath, you leaned into his chest, your voice small and muffled against his tunic. “I'm sorry, husband.”

Geta wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. His chin rested on top of your head as he whispered, “It's okay.”

He breathed in your scent, sweet and intoxicating to his overburdened mind.

“It's okay.”

#emperor geta x you #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #gladiator x reader #gladiator ii #gladiator #gladiator 2 #x you #x reader

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cloudyluun · 3 months ago

Text

The Cost of Keeping You | ceo!harry

Summary: Working for Harry Styles—CEO of Styles Enterprises and unofficial tyrant of the twentieth floor—was never Y/N’s dream. But rent waits for no one. She can handle his cold glares, biting remarks, and soul-sucking silence. Until one day, she can’t. After a brutal insult that hits too close to home, Y/N walks out with her head high and her heart bruised. Harry? He pretends not to care. Until he does.

Now, months later, Harry finds himself unraveling in the quiet she left behind—and he’ll have to decide if he’s ready to face the mess he made… and the woman he might’ve lost forever.

A/N: This fic (based on this request) is for the girlies who love their men mean, miserable, and emotionally repressed 💅 If you’ve ever daydreamed about quitting your toxic job with a dramatic one-liner and having your jerk of a boss realize he’s in love with you months later? Yeah. This one’s for you.

Pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and prepare for CEOrry to suffer

Word Count: 6,6k

Warnings:

Verbal/emotional mistreatment in the workplace (from Harry)

Power imbalance (acknowledged & explored)

Burnout / stress / overwork

Angsty emotionally stunted man

Soul-crushing insult that will make you gasp and clutch your pearls

Groveling (delicious)

Optional heartbreak depending on chosen ending

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

She never planned to stay this long.

The job was supposed to be temporary—a stopgap while she figured things out. Rent in the city wasn’t kind, and freelance gigs didn’t always pay on time. When she landed the executive assistant position at Styles Global, she told herself she’d give it six months. Just enough time to build some savings, maybe line up something closer to her skill set. Something less soul-sucking.

That was two years ago.

Now, she moved through the sleek glass hallways like a ghost in heels, always present, always poised, and always one misstep away from being on the receiving end of another of Harry Styles’ famously cold tirades.

To the rest of the office, he was a legend. A force of nature. They called him “Hurricane Styles” behind his back, though most were too afraid to say it above a whisper. He had built the company from nothing, turned every risk into a win, turned bloodless strategy into an art form. Investors adored him. Board members feared him. And employees? They tried not to make eye contact.

She knew the rules. Never speak unless spoken to. Never offer ideas—he’d either steal them or shoot them down just to remind you who had the power. And never, ever expect gratitude. Harry didn’t say thank you. He said “Fix this.” He said “Again.” He said “Why is this taking so long?”

She’d learned early on not to take it personally. The key was to treat it like weather. Unpleasant, unpredictable, but not about her. She could withstand a storm. She just hadn’t realized how long this one would last.

By month three, she had his routines memorized—his preferred coffee order (black, no sugar, 8:04 a.m. sharp), how he liked his reports formatted (12-point font, single-spaced, no cover page), the names he forgot during meetings (which was most of them). She kept his world running so smoothly that no one noticed the machinery behind it.

That was the way he liked it.

Still, some days, she couldn’t help but feel like she was slowly disappearing. Her friends stopped inviting her out after she bailed on too many Friday dinners. Her fridge was stocked with takeout containers she barely remembered ordering. She ate lunch at her desk, dinner on the train, and sometimes forgot breakfast entirely. Sleep came in fits. Her eyes were ringed in fatigue, her jaw clenched more often than not.

But she showed up. Every morning, polished and precise, like clockwork.

And Harry treated her like she was interchangeable.

“This font is wrong,” he’d say, flipping the folder back toward her without looking up.

“It’s the one you asked for.”

“Well, it’s wrong now.”

He never looked her in the eye unless he was correcting her. He never said her name unless it was followed by a command. Some days, she wondered if he even knew anything about her beyond what was in her HR file.

But she didn’t crack. Not outwardly. She met his coldness with calm, his dismissals with measured silence. Let him feel like he had the upper hand. That was how you survived here. She wasn’t trying to win him over. She was just trying to stay standing.

That morning started like any other. Rain slicked the pavement outside the 52nd Street building. She beat him to the office, as usual, lights already on, coffee already waiting. She sat at her desk just outside his door, skimming through emails, flagging the ones that needed his attention, deleting the ones that didn’t. Her phone buzzed. Another meeting pushed back. She adjusted his calendar accordingly.

“Morning,” came a voice from behind her.

She looked up. Theo, one of the junior project managers, stood there holding a report.

“Hey,” she said, managing a small smile.

He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, I think you might actually be a wizard.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“No, seriously,” he said. “The guy’s a nightmare, but you—you handle him like it’s nothing. You’re the only one who can.”

She snorted under her breath, shaking her head. “Trust me. It’s not magic. It’s caffeine and pure survival instinct.”

“I still think you deserve a raise. Or hazard pay.”

She didn’t say anything, just turned back to her screen. But the compliment—simple, sincere—sat heavy in her chest like a secret. She couldn’t remember the last time someone said something nice to her in this building.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

Theo straightened instantly. “Morning, Mr. Styles.”

Harry didn’t respond. Just walked past them, into his office, and shut the door with that sharp, final click that always made her stomach knot.

She went back to work. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then—

“Y/N.”

His voice, clipped and cold.

She stepped into his office, notepad in hand.

He didn’t look up from his screen. “Why did I just overhear you chatting with one of the junior staff?”

She blinked. “He had a report you needed to see. He also—”

“—was wasting your time,” Harry cut in, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were unreadable. “You’re not here to make friends.”

Her jaw tensed. “I wasn’t.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, walking around his desk until they stood a few feet apart.

“If this,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her notepad, her schedule, her entire existence, “is your best, then maybe you should stick to fetching coffee. You're not irreplaceable.”

The words landed like a slap. Not loud, not violent—just surgical in their precision. She stared at him, willing herself not to react. Not to flinch.

Instead, she swallowed hard, nodded once, and left the room.

Back at her desk, she sat perfectly still.

It wasn’t the first time he’d belittled her. But this one felt different. It wasn’t just that he was cruel. It was that he’d said it so easily. As if she was nothing. As if all the late nights and early mornings, all the silent sacrifices, all the ways she kept him afloat… meant nothing.

And he hadn’t even thought twice.

She worked through lunch. Didn’t speak to anyone the rest of the day. Just kept her head down, her expression blank, her hands steady. But inside, something had shifted. Something small, but irreversible.

He thought she was replaceable.

He was going to find out how wrong he was.

The next morning, she arrived at her usual time—fifteen minutes before anyone else. The office was quiet, still soaked in early dawn light. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. She sat at her desk, logged in, and started moving pieces around on his schedule like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Her spine was straighter. Her eyes sharper. She wasn't angry. Not exactly. Anger was too loud, too hot. What she felt was colder, deeper—an indifference blooming like frostbite. She had nothing left to prove. And for the first time, she could see the finish line. She just hadn’t decided when she’d cross it.

Harry didn’t notice at first.

He breezed in just before 8:15, late by his standards, muttering about a traffic delay, waving off the coffee she still—out of sheer habit—had waiting for him. She took notes in a meeting, filed reports, arranged travel for a business trip he wasn’t even sure he wanted to take. It was routine, rote. The same grind she’d mastered over the last two years.

But Harry wasn’t stupid. And despite his best efforts to act otherwise, he noticed things.

He noticed that she didn’t offer him her usual rundown of the day’s meetings. Didn’t preemptively print the documents he’d need before his 10 a.m. Didn’t even ask if he wanted lunch or if she should push back his next call when the morning ran long.

Instead, she moved like a ghost—silent, efficient, detached.

And it irritated the hell out of him.

By the third day of this quiet withdrawal, he found himself pacing behind his desk after everyone had gone, a file open in front of him that he couldn’t bring himself to read. His office was too quiet. The desk outside his door was empty. She’d left promptly at five, like clockwork. No late-night filing, no quiet hum of her music spilling from her earbuds, no light footsteps when she brought him coffee after hours just because she knew he hadn’t eaten.

It wasn’t just her silence. It was her absence, even when she was still here.

The power imbalance he’d once leaned on so comfortably had shifted. And he didn’t know what to do with it.

So, naturally, he got meaner.

It started with nitpicks. “This margin is off.” “You didn’t bcc the right name.” “I said tomorrow, not Thursday.” All minor things—some imagined—but each said with increasing venom.

She didn’t react. Not really. Just fixed it and moved on. Which made him feel even more off-balance.

Then came the mistake.

It wasn’t even a big one. A slide title on the wrong deck. A single date typo buried in a footnote. But it was during a high-stakes pitch meeting—one he was already on edge about. The room was packed: department heads, a few investors, his second-in-command, and of course, her. Standing just to the side, laptop in hand, managing the screen.

He was presenting. She was supporting. It was a rhythm they knew by heart.

Until her voice broke in, gentle but confident. “Just to clarify, that figure includes Q3 projections, not finalized Q2 numbers.”

He turned slowly.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

She blinked. “You mentioned the quarterly report. I just wanted to clarify—”

“I know what I said,” he snapped. “What I don’t understand is why you’re talking like you have any authority to speak in this room.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Someone coughed. A chair creaked.

She stared at him. The warmth drained from her face like a switch had flipped.

He wasn’t done.

“You’re here to run slides and take notes. Not to correct me mid-pitch. If I wanted your input, I’d have asked for it. Stick to what you’re paid for.”

She said nothing. Just nodded once and backed off.

The presentation ended five minutes later, stiff and awkward. As the room cleared, he caught a few sidelong glances, a few too-quiet murmurs. But he didn’t care. He was still buzzing with that adrenaline of dominance, the way he always did after asserting control. It was familiar. Automatic.

But when he stepped into his office and saw her already there, standing near his desk, arms folded, expression unreadable—something in him pulled tight.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“I just corrected the slide title,” she said. “You had the wrong quarter listed. It wasn’t to embarrass you.”

He shrugged, brushing past her toward his desk. “Then maybe next time you’ll think before you speak.”

She didn’t move. “You know, I’ve put up with a lot. The mood swings. The condescension. The hours.”

He looked up, something cold flashing behind his eyes. “Is there a point to this?”

“Yes,” she said. “There is.”

Her voice was steady. Calm. But there was a crack in it now—a fracture held together by sheer will.

He smiled. But it wasn’t kind. “Do you really think you matter here? You’re just another name on the payroll. Don’t mistake necessity for value.”

That was it.

The final blow.

And this time, she didn’t swallow it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t cry.

She laughed.

It was soft at first. Disbelieving. Then colder, darker—a sound pulled from some place buried deep inside her. It startled him. He hadn’t heard her laugh in weeks. Hadn’t seen her smile, not for real, in even longer.

“You know what, Harry?” she said, her voice low and tired and done. “I hope one day you realize what you lost. Not because I want to be missed. But because I want you to feel it. Just once.”

She reached for her badge. Popped it off. Placed it on his desk like it weighed nothing. Like he weighed nothing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She walked out of his office without another word. Past the desk she’d kept too tidy for too long. Past the glass doors. Past the stunned stares of a few late-working staff who turned just in time to see the ghost of Hurricane Styles’ assistant walking away with her head high.

No notice.

No drama.

Just a clean break.

And Harry, still behind his desk, still holding that last insult in his mouth like poison, realized something too late:

He’d finally broken her.

But she wasn’t the one who was going to pay for it.

He was.

Harry’s POV

He told himself he didn’t care.

Said it out loud, even. In his office, to his reflection, to the empty silence that used to hold her soft footsteps and the quiet rustle of papers being filed. He shrugged when Mitch asked what happened, rolled his eyes when Sarah from HR hinted they should reach out—just in case she had any materials to hand over. He waved it all off.

“I’ll find someone better,” he said flatly, sipping the wrong coffee made by a temp who had no idea he hated hazelnut. “She wasn’t indispensable.”

But the lie sat sour on his tongue.

The first week without her was logistical chaos. The temp assistant—two years younger and painfully eager—couldn’t read his tone, couldn’t keep up, and worst of all, kept asking questions. Dumb ones. Obvious ones. Ones she would have known before he even opened his mouth. The schedules were off. Calls missed. A client dinner was double-booked and he had to personally call and apologize.

He hadn’t made a personal apology in years.

By Friday, he’d snapped three pens in half and raised his voice more times than he could count. He barked at the intern for misprinting a memo and nearly slammed the door on Mitch when he came in with a project update.

The tension he used to wear like armor suddenly felt suffocating.

He lasted exactly six minutes in his office on Monday before storming out. The blinds were still half-drawn the way she always left them—just enough light, not enough glare. Her chair was pushed in, perfectly aligned with the desk. Her spare cardigan was gone, but the scent of her lotion still lingered faintly in the air. Clean. Subtle. Warm.

It punched something in his chest he didn’t know was tender.

He moved into the boardroom instead. Set up camp there like a child refusing to sleep in his own bed after a nightmare.

By week two, everyone knew not to mention her name.

He still caught himself pausing at 11 a.m., waiting for the sound of her humming while she filed. She used to hum the same tune when she was stressed—always off-key, always quiet. He never commented on it, never even acknowledged it. But now the silence grated.

So did the coffee.

He tried to make it the way she used to—just once. Burnt the beans. Stained his shirt.

The spiral was slow but steady. Every little thing reminded him of her. The seat in the elevator she used to lean against when they left late. The branded notepad she always carried, filled with tiny, organized handwriting. The pen she once borrowed and never returned—still in his drawer, chewed at the tip, because she had the annoying habit of biting pens when deep in thought.

And then there were the flashbacks.

The kind that crept up when he least expected them—sharp, vivid, unforgiving.

There was the day he’d come in with a migraine, growling at anyone who dared breathe too loud. She hadn’t said a word. Just dimmed the lights, closed his door, and left a cold compress on his desk. He never thanked her. Never even looked up.

Another time, she brought him soup. Chicken and rice. From some little place two blocks over. He hadn’t eaten all day, his voice was raw from back-to-back calls, and when she placed the container down with a quiet “It’s not a big deal,” he’d snapped.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She hadn’t argued. Just nodded and walked out. But she never brought him soup again.

He should’ve said something then.

He didn’t.

Three weeks after she left, he found her coffee mug still in the back of the cupboard—white ceramic with a tiny chip on the handle. She used to joke that it was her lucky cup, and if it ever broke completely, she’d “take the hint and leave.”

He nearly dropped it.

Instead, he placed it back on the shelf like it was glass-thin, like it could still be salvaged if he just didn’t touch it too hard.

It was around week four when the real punch came.

He wasn’t even looking for it. He was on a news site, scrolling mindlessly, avoiding the stack of files he couldn’t bring himself to organize because no one was around to nag him about deadlines. And then he saw her.

It was a photo embedded in an article—some small piece about a new start-up shaking up the tech world. He wouldn’t have clicked it normally. But her face was there, radiant and easy, mid-laugh. Candid. Honest.

She was standing outside a building he vaguely recognized, arm looped with another woman, both of them holding champagne flutes. The caption said she’d joined the company as their new operations director.

Operations director.

She hadn’t just moved on. She’d leveled up.

And she looked...happy. Not performative, not polite—genuinely alive in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Her shoulders weren’t tight. Her eyes weren’t dull. She wasn’t tired. She was free.

That was when it hit him.

He didn’t just lose his assistant.

He lost the one person who gave a damn.

The one who saw him—flaws, fury, all of it—and still showed up, day after day. Not because she had to. But because, at some point, she’d cared.

He used to believe fear was the best motivator. That respect was earned through intimidation. That keeping people at arm’s length meant control. He thought he was untouchable.

But the echo of her laugh still lived in these halls.

And her absence was loud enough to shatter glass.

The days dragged after that. He stopped snapping at people—not because he felt better, but because he didn’t feel anything at all. His office was cold. Clinical. The chair outside his door stayed empty most days, the temp too afraid to sit there for long. The entire floor felt off-balance, like the center of gravity had shifted and no one could quite walk straight.

Every time he saw her picture in that article, he stared at it a little longer.

He kept it open in a background tab.

It was pathetic. He knew that.

But it was also the only thing keeping him tethered.

Because if she could move on...then maybe, maybe there was still a sliver of something he could hold onto.

Maybe redemption wasn’t off the table.

But it wouldn’t come easy. And it wouldn’t come fast.

He’d burned that bridge with a blowtorch.

Now the question was whether there was anything left to rebuild.

The first text he sent was short.

Harry: I’m sorry.

No punctuation. No context. Just two words, tossed into the void of read receipts and silence. It stayed unread. A gray “Delivered” glaring back at him from his phone screen for hours, then days. He told himself maybe she changed her number. Maybe she didn’t see it. But deep down, he knew better.

The second message came two days later.

Harry: I didn’t mean what I said that day. I was angry. At myself. Not you.

Still nothing.

Then came the email. He drafted it at 2 a.m., sitting in the same boardroom he’d commandeered as his cave ever since her departure. He read it over twenty times before sending.

Subject: I owe you an apology.

“Y/N,

I’ve rewritten this a dozen times. Nothing feels like enough. I was wrong. About a lot.

You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. You weren’t just efficient, you were essential—to the company, yes, but also to me. I just didn’t realize it until you were gone.

I miss your steadiness. Your patience. Your fucking humming that used to drive me insane and now echoes in my head like a ghost.

I said things I regret. Things I can’t take back. But I need you to know—you mattered. You mattered more than I ever let myself admit.

If nothing else, let me say this to your face. You don’t owe me anything, but I hope you’ll give me five minutes.

H”

It bounced. Full inbox.

She’d blocked his email.

The next step should’ve felt like a line crossed. But he was already halfway through the wreckage of what he’d ruined—what was one more dent to the ego?

He showed up at her apartment building. Waited outside like a fool with a takeaway coffee and a note in his pocket he didn’t dare hand over.

She didn’t come out.

He tried again. And again.

Once, he saw the curtain shift. A shadow behind the glass. But the door never opened. She never came down.

He stood there for fifteen minutes longer than he should’ve, heart in his throat, hands freezing around the paper cup. And when it became clear she wasn’t going to face him, he tucked the note under the doormat and left without looking back.

He never found it there again.

Still, he couldn’t stop.

He checked her company’s press page obsessively. Memorized every project announcement, every update. She looked like she belonged there. Like she was thriving. There was a confidence in her posture that hadn’t existed when she worked for him. Like she finally had room to breathe.

It should’ve made him happy.

Instead, it gutted him.

The opportunity for confrontation didn’t come until six weeks later. It was an industry networking mixer, full of self-congratulatory execs and overpriced cocktails. He wasn’t planning to go, but Mitch had dragged him out—said he’d been a recluse long enough.

He hadn’t expected her to be there.

She wasn’t even in the main ballroom when he saw her—she was out on the terrace, standing by the railing with a drink in hand, backlit by soft string lights and city glow. Her hair was pulled up. Her dress was simple, but elegant. Understated power.

She looked…whole.

For a moment, he froze. Thought about turning around. Maybe he should’ve. But then she turned slightly, laughing at something someone said beside her, and the sound cracked something open in his chest.

So he walked.

His heart thudded with every step. His palms were damp. There were a thousand versions of this conversation he’d rehearsed in his head, but now, with her just a few feet away, he couldn’t remember any of them.

She noticed him before he could say anything. Her smile faded, her gaze hardening into something unreadable.

He stopped a foot away, gave her space. She didn’t move.

“Hi,” he said. Quiet. Careful.

“Harry.” Her voice was calm. Unmoved. The ice in her drink clinked as she swirled it slowly.

He waited. Nothing. No warmth. No invitation.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“I was awful to you,” he said finally. “I don’t even know where to start—”

“You don’t have to,” she cut in. “You said everything you wanted to the day I quit.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t care.”

It landed like a slap. Clean. Honest. Brutal.

She took a sip of her drink and looked past him, like she was already bored with the conversation. He could see the shift in her—the absence of the girl who used to hesitate before speaking, who used to shrink under the weight of his moods. That girl was gone. This version of her stood taller. Spoke clearer. Didn’t flinch.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I was scared,” he said. “Of needing you. Of how much I depended on you. I pushed you because I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “So you punished me because you couldn’t manage your own emotions?”

“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t see it then. But I do now.”

She stared at him, the silence stretching thin between them.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he added. “I’m not asking for things to go back to the way they were. I just needed you to know I’m sorry. That I miss you. That losing you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

Something flickered across her face—small, fleeting. A crack in the armor. But it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“You miss the way I made your life easier. The way I knew your schedule, your moods, your coffee order. You miss the convenience.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I miss you. The person. The presence. The way you gave a shit even when I didn’t deserve it. The way you challenged me without ever raising your voice. The way you—” His voice broke. “The way you saw me. Even when I couldn’t see myself.”

A beat of silence.

Then she exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

“I used to think,” she said quietly, “that if I worked hard enough, stayed long enough, you’d see it. That you’d see me. Not just as an assistant, but as a human being.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“But I realized,” she continued, “that the problem wasn’t my effort. It was your inability to recognize value unless it screamed. I had to break to get your attention.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her glass. “I’m not angry anymore, Harry. I’m not bitter. I just… don’t want to go back to a place that made me feel small.”

“I don’t want that either,” he said. “If there’s even the smallest chance… I’ll do whatever it takes. Not to get the old dynamic back, but to build something better. On your terms.”

She looked up at him then, really looked at him.

And for the first time, he saw the cost. The weight she’d carried. The cracks she’d had to seal on her own.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m ready,” she said. “If I’m ready.”

“I know.” He stepped back slightly, giving her room. “But I’ll be here. However long it takes.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, small and measured.

He left her there, under the soft lights, the night cool against his skin.

For the first time, he didn’t walk away with answers. But he walked away knowing something had shifted.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

The days that followed were quiet. Not the suffocating kind he’d grown used to, full of silence and unanswered messages, but the kind that forced reflection. He didn’t try to contact her again. Not right away. He didn’t loiter by her building, didn’t send another desperate email. He’d said his piece. Now, he had to prove he meant it.

That started with his own house.

Literally.

The place was a mess—not just physically, but emotionally. It still looked like it belonged to the version of him she’d left: sharp edges, cold surfaces, and schedules that ran tighter than his jawline used to. So he changed it. Started small. New photos on the wall—ones that weren’t just boardroom snapshots and event galas. He framed one of the office holiday party she’d organized three years ago. The one where she wore a ridiculous headband with blinking lights and somehow still managed to look composed.

He made space in his days that didn’t revolve around profit margins and investor calls. Therapy twice a week, no excuses. He started having actual conversations with his team. Not just directives. Not just performance reviews. Real check-ins. The kind he used to think were a waste of time.

He showed up. And not in the grand, dramatic gestures he might’ve leaned on before. No flowers sent to her new office. No extravagant apologies. Just quiet, consistent effort.

And slowly, word got around.

Mitch mentioned over lunch that she’d heard. That someone on her team had passed along the news—Harry wasn’t the same. He didn’t snap anymore. He listened more than he talked. And most shocking of all, he’d started mentoring junior staff.

“It’s not a magic trick,” Mitch had said, half-smiling. “But people are noticing.”

Still, she didn’t reach out. And he didn’t expect her to. He wasn’t owed anything.

So he focused on what he could control.

Then, one afternoon in early spring, a message arrived. Short. Neutral.

Y/N: Can you talk?

He stared at it for five minutes before replying.

Harry: Anytime.

They met at a quiet café halfway between her office and his. It wasn’t a date. She made that clear in her tone, her posture, the space she kept between them. But she’d come. And that was something.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, sipping her tea.

“I’ve had a lot to make up for.”

“I didn’t reach out because I needed space. I still do. But I’ve been watching. And I see the work.”

He nodded, unsure if it was his place to speak.

“This doesn’t mean anything changes,” she added. “But I want to see if… maybe we can start from zero. Slowly.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Whatever pace you need.”

They didn’t talk much that day. But the door had opened.

Over the next few weeks, they found a strange new rhythm. Occasional texts. Brief lunches. No talk of the past unless she brought it up. He learned to follow her lead, to listen without trying to fix or justify.

It wasn’t easy. He’d built his career on control, on always having the answer. But this wasn’t a boardroom. This was trust—raw, slow-growing, and fragile.

One afternoon, she visited his office. Unannounced.

“I was nearby,” she said, though the tremor in her voice hinted at something deeper. She looked around. The space had changed since she’d last seen it. Softer lighting. Fewer screens. A photo of his niece on the shelf, grinning with a missing front tooth.

“You’ve changed,” she said after a pause.

“I had to.”

“For you?”

“For me. But also because if I hadn’t, I would’ve lost everything. Not just you. Myself.”

She nodded slowly, then held out a folder.

“I’ve been working on something. A proposal.”

He blinked, surprised, then took it. Her name was on the first page. Director of Strategic Initiatives.

“This isn’t you asking for your old job back,” he said, flipping through it.

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s me offering to build something with you. As equals. Or not at all.”

He smiled then. Not the smug, closed-lip smirk she used to hate, but something softer. More real.

“I’d be lucky to have you.”

“You’d be smart,” she corrected.

He laughed, and for the first time in a long while, so did she.

The official announcement went out a month later. She’d accepted the position—but not in his division. She’d have her own team. Her own budget. Full autonomy. And he made it clear, in both the press release and the internal memo, that her success would have his support, not his interference.

Their collaboration started professionally. Emails, strategy meetings, pitch reviews. But something unspoken lingered beneath it all. A current. A history neither of them dared touch—until the night of the fundraiser.

It was raining. Of course it was.

He wasn’t sure if she’d come. It was a high-profile event, black tie, every reason for her to avoid it. But then she walked in.

Black dress. Hair down this time. Calm, confident. She scanned the room and found him almost immediately.

Later, when most of the guests had filtered out and the ballroom was half-empty, she found him on the balcony, staring out into the storm.

“I used to think rain was bad luck,” she said, stepping beside him.

He turned. “And now?”

“I think maybe it just… washes away the noise.”

He watched her for a long moment. Then finally, voice low, he said, “I meant it. Everything I said. That day.. I still mean it.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just looked at him, eyes searching.

“You’re still a bit of a hurricane, Harry.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then let me be the one to rebuild what I tore down.”

She studied him. The vulnerability. The steadiness he hadn’t had before.

“I don’t need saving,” she said.

“I know. You never did.”

“But I might be ready to build something. Not because I miss what we had. But because I see who you’re trying to become.”

“And who are you?” he asked softly.

She tilted her head. “Someone who won’t settle. Not for less than mutual respect. Not for silence when there should be honesty. Not for anything less than real.”

“Then I’ll meet you there,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

The moment stretched.

And then, under the city lights and the steady hum of rain, she stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t assume. Just waited.

She reached up, fingers brushing his cheek. Her kiss was gentle. No heat or desperation. Just truth.

When they pulled apart, she smiled—small, certain.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive everything.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“But it means I see you. And I believe you see me now too.”

He nodded, eyes stinging.

“I always did,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to show it.”

She touched his hand, lacing their fingers briefly before stepping back.

“Start with showing up,” she said. “Keep doing that. Day by day.”

“I will.”

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was chasing her shadow. He was standing beside her.

Present.

Ready.

This time, they’d build it right.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles x y/n #harry styles one shot #angst #harry edward styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fluff #fanfiction

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dokyumms · 4 months ago

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patience

pairing: ot13 x fem 14thmember!reader

genre: angst, fluff

word count: 2.5k

cw: cursing, teasing/nagging, drinking (they go to kbbq), emotionally sensitive reader, reader crashes out, reader is stupid as fuck 💀

synopsis: the members tended to make fun of you all the time, and normally you were fine with it, but now, you just couldn't take it anymore.

a/n: IM BACK GUYS - with another request ! although i feel like this sort of strayed from it. but i hope you still enjoy this kings. anyways, sorry i've been so busy, i have an exam coming up so i've been studying a lot (+ doing other assignments). i hope this could possibly make up for it ?

you were one more annoying comment from blowing up.

from debut, you knew that you were going to be prone to teasing, being the youngest member and all, and you'd actually been holding up pretty well. that is, until now.

it started with a filming day for 'going seventeen', seemed simple enough, fun even. i mean sure, the day before, when you found out the group was chosen to play mafia, you started contemplating your life, but you were used to it by now - or so you thought.

you were all seated in a row as a speaker explained the rules, something everyone had heard a few too many times by now, so you just tuned it out, opting to mentally prepare yourself instead. the members were definitely not mean, at least in the serious sense, but when it came to these things on camera, they could sure be annoying. the worst part? it was only because you just had to have an untimely birth, born only a couple months after dino.

after a couple minutes, the round started, but before you could even get up to go look for the cash, you were immediately accused, "hey doesn't y/n look a little suspicious already?" you turned in the direction of the voice to see jeonghan, looking at you with a smug grin as he pointed an accusing finger. "we haven't even done anything!" you argued back with a hint of laughter. he just smiled, waving you off before he went to go look for the cash. it was going to be a long day.

by the third round, you were frustrated. normally, you never took these things seriously, but you had literally investigated jun and he was one of the mafias! unluckily for you though, every time you tried to tell them, they dismissed you, "you know what? let's just vote y/n out, mingyu said he was the police already anyway?" and somehow every other member was convinced by minghao. you end up voted off without a second thought, shaking your head when the speaker tells everyone that you were in fact, not the mafia.

and guess what? the game ended with mafias mingyu, jeonghan, and jun winning. you watched in (not so) disbelief as they threw the money all over themselves. "you couldn't get us out y/n～" they sing-songed, dancing around you. it was like they had some personal vendetta against you. you just rolled your eyes, scoffing.

but it was all in a jokingly manner (you thought?), one mafia game would not break you. besides, there was still team dinner, something you were looking forward to the entire day.

you sighed in relief, greeted by the smell of korean barbeque as you walked into the restaurant. you were all seated at a circular table, surrounding a grill. "we should make the biggest loser in mafia order for all of us," seungkwan suggested. the table roared in agreement. unsure of who exactly this 'biggest loser' was, you nodded along until seokmin pointed it out, "hah! y/n why are you agreeing? unless you wanted to order that badly?"

you tilted your head to the side, confused, "but wasn't hoshi the first one out?" it seemed like for a moment, the members took your comment into consideration. then hoshi intervened before anyone could say anything, "but you're the youngest～plus, i just got killed off, none of the members actually believed you and you were voted out- that seems to be a bigger loss than mine!" He flashed that dumb smile afterwards. You groaned when the rest of the members nodded in agreement, tilting your head back as wonwoo patted your shoulder empathetically.

you hated ordering for everyone, always tripping up on your words in a rush to get through 14 different orders. not wanting to be a party killer though, you reluctantly agreed.

the waiter came a few minutes after the decision was made, asking for drink orders. you got through them fairly quickly, but then he asked if everyone was ready to order food and they all nodded. having most of the members' usual orders remembered, you told him whatever you recalled. then you got to a side dish that vernon really liked and you blank out, totally forgetting the pronunciation in korean.

the awkward silence was loud as you tried to piece the syllables together, finally getting out some very foreign-accented version of the word. you grimaced at your tone before quickly getting out the rest of the order. after the waiter left, there's about 10 seconds of quiet before the members burst out laughing.

"did you forget korean or something?" joshua teased. the rest of them continued to chuckle, adding other senseless comments. to you, this wasn't funny at all, but you knew their teasing didn't come with bad intentions, so just you excused yourself to the restroom after the laughter died down.

the face in the mirror wasn't pretty. you were red from embarrassment and your ears were hot with humiliation. you knew the members, they weren't mean, so why were you so upset? tears welled up in your eyes, not necessarily out of sadness, but you were overwhelmed. you splashed water on your face, thanking the power of waterproof mascara before patting it dry. it was fine, this was just some dumb moment you won't remember in 10 years, you thought to yourself before heading back.

by the time you had sat down, most of the food had already gotten there. wonwoo seemed to notice your long absence. "are you okay, y/n?" he studied your expression, trying to look for the answer. "yeah, lost track of time looking at myself," you said, almost cringing at how snarky your response was, but it was the best you could come up with. he just shook his head, "you're impossible," you grinned before shoving a piece of meat in your mouth.

the rest of dinner went well for the most part. someone brought up your side dish crisis every now and then whenever vernon ate it, suddenly making you thankful for the alcohol you ordered; the burn in your throat distracted you from whatever they said.

the next day, you were not so thankful for the alcohol, realizing too late that you had practice the next morning. you tried to ignore the pounding in your head, doing the bare minimum to get ready for the day.

as practice began, you couldn't tell if it was the border-line hang over that made everyone so irritating today, or just themselves. you were just stretching, preparing for the next couple hours of dancing when minghao came up next to you. "why do you stretch like that? you look kind of dumb," he commented. "you mean me doing a side lunge looks weird?" you were confused, but he just shrugged before going on his phone. that was odd, but that's just minghao being him, you thought, a little self conscious after the sudden poke.

then jeonghan came by to grab his water bottle that was near you, "hey little miss 'i don't know korean', how's that hangover?" you felt your eye twitch, could they not let that go? "hah, very funny, and i'm fine" you responded, trying not to sound too hostile. he just smiled smugly. "hm, if you say so," he said

2 hours later, your headache got worse if anything. after a run of 'super' you tried to get a drink, but dino stopped you. "what do you think you're doing? we're going again," you knew dino wasn't asking, he was telling you. if you didn't know him personally, you would've thought he was the oldest whenever it came to practice. either way, you were thirsty as hell, deciding he couldn't get that mad at a sip of water, you reached for your bottle. "what, did you forget korean again? come on, let's go!"

alright that was it.

"you know what? maybe i did forget korean!" you shouted. the whole room seemed to freeze, dino's mouth was open, but nothing came out, shocked by your sudden tone. everyone instinctively turned to seungcheol, their leader, but he seemed dumbfounded too. well, it was too late to turn back now, you thought.

"how many times has someone mentioned that in a sentence? can yall just leave it alone already? you think i'll just take everything because i'm some dumb maknae, don't you!" something in you knew you had to stop, but all the pent up anger in you just kept spilling out. there was a familiar feeling in your throat as you shouted, tears welled up in your eyes again.

"can yall just- just leave me alone!" you spat out, not being able to think of anything else to say before you ran out of the room as fast as possible, embarrassed and mad- at yourself. that was definitely not supposed to happen. voices called out after you, but you didn't stop. the adrenaline took you to some local park that you'd seen a couple times before.

you stopped to catch your breath, feeling more tears fall as you realized just how screwed you were. all of your stuff was still at the building; you didn't even have money on you. but you were not going back there, not after that full blown mess you made. the park wasn't all to unfamiliar though, with enough luck, you should be able to make your way back home. tired, you sat on a bench, watching the children play happily as couples went on their walks. you yawned, not realizing how tired you were till now.

looking around, you took note of how many people were there. you had a mask and cap on at least, so maybe a nap wouldn't hurt, or not even a nap. you would just rest your eyes...

*tap tap tap*

you rubbed your eyes- oh shit- you actually fell asleep here? suddenly aware of your situation, you practically fell out of the bench. "hey, take it easy," said an old voice, you looked up to the person who'd presumably woken you up. it was an old woman, a grandma even. she had her arms out, as if she was waiting to catch you whenever you woke up. i just noticed you were asleep here; it's getting late, you should go home soon." she said softly. she was right, the sun seemed to be setting already. most, if not all, the children were gone, leaving you, the woman, and a couple of teens at the park. you felt a sudden pang of fear, if this lady had just gotten here, that meant you were alone, vulnerable to the world.

as if she could read your mind, the woman put a hand on your shoulder, "don't worry, my daughter was watching over you earlier, but she had to go to work, so she called me to check on you," she explained. it was honestly a miracle. "do you need help getting home? i could point out the directions," she offered. you were about to decline, feeling like you knew the way before looking around again. maybe it was how fast your heart was racing or how dazed you were from sleep, but you felt like you couldn't think properly, at least not enough to know the direction. you nodded your head, telling her you lived near a popular shop. she gave you some basic directions.

you thanked her multiple times, honestly you were about to get on your knees, but she just waved you off. "it'll only get later if you keep thanking me, go home, child." saying goodbye, you raced home, recalling her instructions.

when your eyes caught onto some familiar buildings and signs, you let out a sigh of relief. glad that the woman hadn't lied to you. your pace slowed to a walk as you made your way to your apartment, making a full stop when you recognized two figures walking near the convenience store next to it.

you made them out to be seungcheol and mingyu, looking around anxiously. having a sudden realization that they were probably looking for you, you cowardly made your way toward them, not forgetting what you'd said earlier that day.

mingyu's eyes widened at the sight of you, "y/n?" he shouted, a little too loud for a public setting, running in your direction. you didn't get a chance to say anything before he engulfed you in a bear hug "holy shit y/n, where were you? did you know you left your phone at practice? we were so scared," he kept rambling as seungcheol came up behind him. "everyone else is at your place" he explained. "we're all sorry, y/n. we should stop joking like that..." he mumbled, almost embarrassed. it was a surprise, to see your leader look so shy.

"don't worry about it, let's just go home," you decided, raising an eyebrow when they immediately grabbed both of your hands. "just making sure you don't run away again," mingyu explained. you smiled, letting them drag you toward your apartment.

you were a little scared at the sight you were met with when you entered. people were everywhere, scattered amongst your living room in some frenzy. everyone seemed to gasp when they saw you. shy from the sudden attention, you felt like sprinting right back out the door, but seungcheol pushed you in.

after waving down nearly 50 apologies and "we were so scared"s, you went towards dino. he was a nervous wreck, sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap and his eyes looking everywhere but near you. you knelt in front of him. "dino," he didn't budge, looking straight past you, "chan, look at me," you held his face, directing it toward you. he looked like he'd been crying. "i'm not mad at you, i promise," you said in an attempt to soothe him. "i'm sorry y/n, i-" you cut him off with a kiss, an impulsive move for sure, but it did the job. "i know, i know. it's really okay,"

he didn't seem convinced, but he eventually caved in, giving you a hug. you heard the members in the background, complaining about how they didn't get a kiss, but whatever. "hah! she must love me more than yall," dino called out before wincing in pain when you pinched him.

you finally showered before sitting on the couch, sandwiched between jeonghan and wonwoo. everyone decided to sleep over, various sleeping bags, mattresses, and blankets dispersed among your living room. seungkwan argued with hoshi for a long time before choosing a movie before deciding on some new marvel movie you had heard of once of twice.

wonwoo came closer to you, giving you a soft kiss on your cheek. "you know, we were such a mess without you. don't leave us again." he whispered. "i can tell, look at the state of my living room," wonwoo chuckled and pulled you closer along with the blanket, ignoring jeonghan's complaint of how his legs were cold now.

"we all love you a lot, y/n."

"i know, i love you all too." you responded.

yes, your members could be dickheads every now and then, but sometimes it was worth it.

#seventeen #svt #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #seventeen x you #svt x you #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x y/n #svt x y/n #seventeen angst #svt angst #seventeen fanfic #svt fanfic #dokyumms

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rosesnbooks · 4 months ago

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❤️Scorpio placements🖤

💋sun in scorpio: scorpio suns are complex and those with this placement vary a lot. i have no trouble figuring out someone's moon in scorpio but it gets a bit difficult when it comes to the sun. either way, they always have a strong presence and they don't go unnoticed. people tend to form strong opinions about them, whether good or bad. their aesthetics can be different, with some even leaning toward softer looks. the women can be really cheerful and soft, but persevering. the men tend to be more on the "man of few words" side while trying to upkeep a masculine demeanor. they tend to have a great memory and they form strong attachements with their loved ones. they can be either shy or outgoing, but one thing they have in common is that they remain a mystery to a certain degree. they are full of life and they are very curious, and intellectual. they are funny and they love humorous people too. they are interested in many things and they like direct people who are fun to be with. the toxic ones can be really mean and gossipy, while others can be attentive and interesting. they appreciate the beauty in small things in life but they also have high ambitions and aren't afraid to dream big. they are responsible and mature for their age (obviously not everyone but yeah). they are hidden romantics and they have a crush most of the time

💋moon in scorpio: sensitive people with lots of emotions they try to keep hidden. they are very careful who they open up to and people tend to drain their energy, or they simply get tired of keeping up appearances. they want to have people in their lives who make them feel safe and they want someone they can confide into. they try to be independent but they want to rely on others sometimes too. they crave to be understood but they also want to remain a mysterious persona. they also crave a lot of passion in their daily lives and romance. they need hobbies and people that make them feel alive. those who do not manage to find such things tend to become obsessive with love and..yk...because it can give them that high. nevertheless, they are very passionate and creative. they are intuitive and feel other people's emotions but their emotional intelligence depends on their personal growth and their ability to be open-minded. they are prepared to do whatever it takes for their loved ones. i have noticed that they can be hard on themselves and that they wish to be more detached because it seems less complicated. despite craving privacy, i think many of them like attention, especially from the right people. they are yearners at their core.

💋ascendant/rising sign in scorpio: these people seem intimidating at first. they could have a soft aesthetic and everything and still not be easily approachable because of their aura. and yet, people can't seem to stop gravitating toward them. they usually leave an impression even in the shortest of interactions and people want to know what's happening in their mind. they are a lot more sensitive than they look. when relaxed and confident, their demeanor can be hypnotizing and they can turn on their charm easily. i have noticed that they find a fashion style they like and stick to it religiously. many prefer darker colors or more neutral tones they can combine with similar shades. the textures can vary but I rarely see them in any flashing colors. their eyes have a specific depth to them and you feel like they're always out of your reach somehow. they are a bit shy with new people but once they relax they can be humorous and talkative. others may think that they flirt a lot more than they actually do, which can get annoying. i've noticed that they attract emotionally immature people and men who show signs of toxic masculinity. they really like music and their alone time. food is also important to them!

💋mercury in scorpio-these people may not be of too many words unless they feel comfortable with you and even then, they are not yappers (in my experience). they observe people to form strong impressions. they are not the biggest fans of confrontation because they know things could get out of hand, so if they decide to fight with you, you must have pressed all the wrong buttons; especially if you hurt someone they love. they are honest and they like to get straight to the point. they talk with passion regarding the things they like. many of them really like gossip and their tendency to form strong first impressions can be impulsive and incorrect at times, so they need to be a bit more open-minded and patient with people. they are true skeptics sometimes because they need to believe in something 100% before acknowledging it. they also like taboo/darker topics. they are interested in the human nature and value truth even when it is uncomfortable and painful. they know how to read between the lines and figure out the true meaning of someone's words, so they are not easily fooled. they are not interested in small talk, in fact it drains them. i think journaling is amazing for all signs, but scorpios could benefit from it especially. basically, any outlet that lets them express their emotions and creativity without shame or fear, is good for them. it can be hard to compromise with them sometimes, and they need to work on that.

💋venus in scorpio-they want partners they can trust wholeheartedly. they may get entangled in some affairs because of their passionate nature and a deep desire for love. when they find the right person for them, they are dedicated, loyal and borderline obsessed haha. their partner becomes a part of them. i've seen some people write that scorpios can cheat their partners if they meet someone who provides the passion that is otherwise lacking in their relationship. i think anyone can cheat, so i don't have the need to comment on that. they probably had some karmic relationships in their life that taught them, the hard way, the kind of partner that's actually good for them. they are not afraid of seeing their loved one's dark sides. in fact, that just brings them even closer because they feel like they got to know them properly and they feel less ashamed of their own darker characteristics. these people are really sensual and they make their partners feel desired and wanted. truly not for those with weaker hearts. once again, they can be stubborn so they need a patient partner with a strong character. they need someone who will be a safe haven for them; someone intuitive, kind, honest, responsible, and well-tempered. they want a healthy relationship, the kind that feels like true love. people who value their freedom and alone time a lottt are not the best match for them, as well as those who lack empathy and healthy communication. in regards to their style i think it is more varied than people may think. people always say that they are romantic but i think this depends on the rest of their chart althoough in general, they are.

💋mars in scorpio-these people are very intense. they can be stubborn and they dislike obeying authority. if they think they're right about things, they can find it difficult to consider other perspectives. they put their heart into everything they do and they dislike doing anything half-heartedly. once they lose interest in something, it is hard to get right back to it, which is why they tend to excel in things that interest them, while performing more on the average side on things that don't matter to them/make sense. they are strong-willed and no matter the obstacles and the dark periods in their life, they persevere and learn from every experience. i've written once that they tend to be either hypersexual or on the asexual spectrum, haven't noticed anything in between much (and i still stand by it). when they get angry they feel consumed by it, and the feeling can stay with them for a while. that can be really tiring. they want to resolve things immediately but they feel blinded by their emotions so they usually have to wait to cool off and think about things before giving a healthy response. they can say hurtful things and hold grudges for a long time. i feel like they are fully aware of all the darker aspects of their personality. they can be overly protective and possessive. but, their love is deep and strong, so people feel lucky to have them in their lives. people can depend on them and trust them with anything. they like taboo topics/darker topics and they are interested in spirituality; they even find comfort in it.

💋saturn in scorpio-i don't know anyone with this placement but i've heard a couple of things along the years. it is no secret that these people are afraid of intimacy and exploring their emotions. they are afraid of being too much and saying the wrong thing, which gets in the way of their personal and even professional life. they can be stubborn, secretive, and quick to judge. they are scared of relying on others so they deal with things alone. life has not treated them kindly and they underwent many transformations. they are strong individuals who can overcome any obstacles and they are very careful and observant. they don't rush into things and they are quite smart. their emotions and intuition provide a rich inner life and a big and loving heart that just needs to give people a chance more. they understand others because of everything they've been through and they can be someone's rock in difficult times. people naturally respect them and listen what they have to say attentively. i've read that they are often responsible with their finances and other reponsibilities. once they decide to work on themselves, a bright future awaits because they will realise their strength and invite wonderful people into their lives.

💋jupiter in scorpio-these people do anything their heart desires even when scared. they are careful, smart, passionate, and loving. they have most luck when they welcome change in their lives. that's when they grow as people and find many good things and people on the way. they use their intense emotions as a tool that guides them toward the truth, which is why they often make the right decisions and trust the right kind of people. they are magnetic and attractive. their wilpower is amazing and they have a great intuition. a lot of them are interested in spirituality and astrology. tarot may be something they are interested too. they have the ability to use their strengths for a good cause or for their selfish gains. this depends on them entirely. life can test them more than others which might seem unfair, which can lead someone toward a path of distrust and manipulation, or courage and honesty (and love, obviously). despite it all, some of them can be victims of manipulation (through media or the ones closest to them). people may learn what makes them tick and what they love and adapt accordingly, only to fulfil their malicious plans for them. i know someone with this placement who uses their intensity to get what they want and it can be morally troubling at times (e.g. using fear and power). they need to nourish their confidence and relationships with others in order to keep growing. nevertheless, they are interesting people you can't seem to forget

♡Thank you for reading dear! A little disclaimer: I am not a professional!♡

©rosesnbooks

#astrology #rosesnbooks #scorpio #scorpio placements #photos found on pinterest

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pastel-peach-writes · 7 months ago

Note

Hii, I LOVE UR FICS!! 🫶🫶🫶 so i was wondering what would caitvi do when their S/O was on their period 🤔🤔 (idk if this is PG-13 😭)

Love, anon

Hi! Yes, this is perfectly PG-13. Thanks for requesting!

Shark Week | CaitVi x Reader

╰┈➤ PLOT: Headcanons of CaitVi with a S/O on their period!

╰┈➤ WARNINGS: No Y/n, Not Proofread, No Spoilers(S2)

⍣ ೋ Enjoy!⍣ ೋ

– Caitlyn and Vi are understanding when their partner is on their period. The pair gets them too so they know how excruciating periods can be emotionally and physically.

– If you're the person who gets cramps really badly to the point where it makes you nauseated or cry, they're always there to provide for you.

– They give you medicine, home remedies, heating pads, and tons of cuddles if you want them. One of them always has a hand on your abdomen when you cuddle. They think it's comforting to have their hand there and honestly, the touch from them and the warmth from their hand is so you never told them to pull away.

– (Unless you were in so much pain that you didn't want to be touched).

– Vi and Caitlyn get you whatever snack you need when you're on your period.

– Let's say you're a huge fan of chocolate, on and off your period, so the girls get you a small basket of all the chocolate they could find or your favorite just because they know it soothes you.

– Maybe you like spicy food instead on your period. Caitlyn finds that a bit strange since spicy foods typically make cramps worse... but they get you spicy food anyway.

– If you're the type of person who gets really emotional on their period, Vi and Caitlyn understand and try not to rock the boat too much or lend an understanding ear.

– Maybe a commercial with a puppy in it made you burst into tears or maybe the kitchen cabinet didn't close the right way so you exploded into a rage and cussed the cabinet out. Either way, they don't judge and always try to talk you down from your rage or ease you when you're crying.

– Of course, the two of them look at each other in a mix of fear and concern when you get ridiculously angry over inanimate objects, but they keep their comments to themselves. (Or at least wait till you aren't in the room to talk about it).

– When you three are out and about or working and your period comes unexpectedly, somehow, they're always prepared.

– Caitlyn never leaves the house without some period products on her. One time a cute girl needed a pad the day Caitlyn didn't have one in her bag and she's regretted it ever since. So in addition to pads, she keeps tampons and liners in her bag too.

– If you're the one to use a cup, she'll only have a brand-new one still packaged in her bag but only when you guys aren't home for days at a time. Otherwise, you gotta deal with the pads and tampons.

– If you're out and you bleed through, Vi is the first to see (if you don't spot it first) and will guide you to a different room to change. The girl will literally give you the pants off her legs to help you out. She doesn't care.

– Obviously, she can't walk around in public with no pants on, no matter how much you and Caitlyn loved her legs, so you would decide on using her jacket as a coverup instead.

– Around shopping centers or stores, they won't hesitate to buy you a new pair of underwear, pants, and more period products when you bleed through.

– If you're at their workplace, they already have a few extra pair of clothes because sometimes, they bleed through too

– And if you're at home, they'll just tell you kindly if you didn't spot it first.

– If your period stained the sheets, hey it happens sometimes, they'll clean the sheets without a problem.

– Honestly, CaitVi are really understanding about periods and won't ever judge. (Unless you're being a little mean to the sink faucet because it's not getting hot quick enough).

– Another thing they like to do with you is cuddle up with your favorite snacks and what whatever movies you want to see. If you have no movies in mind, then you three would find movies that sound interesting.

– You always fall asleep first if the pain isn't too much to bear. You couldn't help it.

– You were warm, fed, well cared for, and cuddled in the comfort of your bed surrounded by your girlfriends who would do anything to make sure you're happy.

WC: 716

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oddballwriter · 2 months ago

Text

Dream BBQ ENA Intimacy Headcannon (SFW & NSFW)

Summary: Some personal headcanons I have about Dream BBQ ENA regarding physical and some emotional intimacy with you and some NSFW/smut headcanons too. Don’t worry I’ve broken up both sfw and nsfw into their own sections so you don’t have to read the nsfw if you don’t want to.

Warnings: in general, gender neutral reader. For the SFW: nothing really, just my thoughts on how I think kissing, holding hands, cuddling, and let aspects of physical affection and intimacy would work. A bit of angst regarding ENA having issues opening up and being vulnerable emotionally but nothing too angsty. For the NSFW: I ramble way too much about all the possibilities of how you could possibly get sexually intimate with ENA and the idea that sky might actually be the limit, so prepare for that. Mentions of dirty talk, dom/sub and top/bottom dynamics, pegging/penetration, fingering, degradation, some talk about possible impact play and hair pulling, scratching, name calling, and manhandling/getting handled roughly. If I’m missing anything, feel free to tell me.

Author’s Snip: Eat up, babes ♥️

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

(SFW)

Kissing is kinda weird. For her regular appearance at least.

To me it just looks like her face is completely flat and that it’s just the center down the middle that makes up her head and the point that makes up her nose and that her face is just plastered on the flat surface so she doesn’t actually have real lips

Not of course there’s her hungover and corrupted form which either are humanoid and thus have lips or at least have an actual mouth-like part of her face. So if you really wanted to you could just kiss that

But for her regular form, you just kinda gotta kiss where her mouth would be and just let the gesture be a sign of a kiss

You’re free to kiss other things like her cheek, forehead, and head though, it’s just the lips situation that’s a bit funny and also the dilemma of her kissing you when she wants to do it. Meanie just doesn’t really attempt to kiss you since there’s no point, but her salesperson has come to the solution of going “mwah” or a kiss noise whenever she kisses you anywhere like your hand, head, or cheek. Your lips, not so much since you get it there

But don’t worry, she’s got two perfectly good hands for hand holding

That’s a bit interesting too though. Not too bad but her hands are very different from each other

Her red hand and arm are the only part of her that’s actually soft and “fleshy” where the rest of her is hard and jagged. But the softness is nice because it feels nice. Through, that hand is a mitten and lacks proper fingers other than her thumb, so you can’t intertwine fingers with that one. But it’s not a big deal or anything, your still very able to hold hands in a joined position and she occasionally strokes the back of you hand with her thumb. So it can still be very nice and sweet

As for her pale side’s hand, there is the fact that that one has actual fingers, but it’s a bit less comfy because it’s hard and more jagged. It’s not too bad other than it doesn’t have give to it like the red one but it’s no big deal too

I also personally bc that that side’s hand is a bit cold unless your holding it and the warmth of your hands transfers to it

As for general intimacy, in the context of the physical kind,

Salesperson likes being “professional” and keeps it to hand holding at most when in the public eye but is definitely okay with physical affection and intimacy like kissing and other things in private or at the very least away from where someone might interrupt your moment together. She be so down to cuddle at the end of the day

Meanie isn’t a huge fan and doesn’t really like PDA other than occasionally taking a hold of your hand possessively if someone’s looking at you in a way she doesn’t like. But lowkey? She’s touch-starved as hell. Her salesperson side satisfies that for them because they’re more open to physical affection in private but Meanie… struggles a bit. And by that I mean she struggles to admit that she wants to be held because she’s always trying to defend and look out for herself and so that shuts her up against being vulnerable enough to melt into touch even though you’re safe to be vulnerable like that with.

She learns eventually but it’s still a bit hard for her at times to accept some love

Her love and security mostly lives in your level of emotional intimacy together, in general, for both sides, but when it’s Meanie it’s all about you and her knowing that you two understand or are able to understand each other emotionally and mentally

She likes being big spoon/holding you but will occasionally ask to be little spoon/held if she’s going through some shit when you guys are cuddling. Hungover 100% hold her, both because she needs it and also so she doesn’t fall off the bed/couch because she’s… her main body can be a bit too limp and not so well coordinated

(NSFW)

How the fuck does one go about getting sexually intimate with ENA? In general. How does that work? That’s just a group of polygons. That is the schooler’s and philosopher’s question. Because it’s definitely more complicated than the simple “put part A into part B” that we see with… physical people composed of flesh…

Or maybe it can be?? Someone brought on the great point that maybe she can just summon something for herself to get the job done if that’s what you want? Anything can be used in pegging and as a dildo/dick if you’re open enough. I mean, she summoned that little boss egg out of nothing and she quite literally can manifest her megaphone anytime she wants out of thin air. Who says she can’t summon anything she wants? Get experimental.

Also, it’s not all about penetration. Sometimes it’s just whatever gets you off and she’s got things to grind up on and two perfectly good hands that can still be used despite any quirks they might have

Idk maybe the sharpness of her clawed hand can do something for you. People are into feeling pointy things and getting pricked during sex. Maybe she can even get rid of the points of her fingers too if you want her to get up in there with her finders

Literally who the fuck said she can’t change things about her body? Maybe that’s just her regular base form but she can change any part of her body into something else like tentacles if you’re down for it. Like, she can literally change parts of her at will in some cutscenes. I don’t think there is any limits in that world. I am yet to see any real limits or laws of nature in this world, maybe there are none

She can canonically detach her limbs and have them move around freely…

…

Now hear me out-

She could hypothetically detach her head from her body and eat you out if she wanted

Or detach her hand and tease you with it

You could actually do so much with the fact that she can do that.

The question is not “how do we do it?”, my friend.

It’s “how creative can we get?”.

Anyways enough philosophy about the laws of nature and limits when it comes to sex

Top…

Dom… even

…

I said what I said

She gives top energy. She looks like she likes being the woman in charge and I’d let her. She looks like she knows what she’s doing once she understands how you “function” if you catch my drift

I think it’s the hat and outfit. I’m not saying she looks like she’s in kink gear. I’m saying that a lot of top/dom kink gear looks like what she wears

Also, her personalities could definitely be in charge in their own rights

Don’t lie to me, I know you little freaks (/affectionate) want Meanie to yell at you like that in bed. I’ve been on the internet and certain parts of it to get the appeal, coupled with the way I see you guys fawning over how charming her salesperson side is

Salesperson can talk you out of things other than your money

But yeah. I can definitely imagine salesperson practically talking you out of your clothes and telling you what they want you to do and also talking you through it

Also might be a bit of a service top too. She likes being your top rate holder of “customer satisfaction”

She uses business and sales buzz words when she’s flirting with you and in her dirty talk, which is fun because she makes “private meetings” and “added bonuses” sound so sexy but but at the same time sometimes she just says it to you in front of others because she knows damn well that only you are going to know what she’s actually saying while everyone else thinks she’s trying to sell some bullshit scheme. And she knows what she’s doing too. She’s gives you that shit eating grin and looks you right in the eyes as she walks away, meanwhile you’re red in the face

Meanie… you already know

She’s a bit rough and can get really rough if she wants to be and she knows that you want her to be

Salesperson will guide you through it and actually be quite gentle. But Meanie knows what you’re here for when you do it with her

Insults you and degrades you. Calls you all the names in the book and a whole mix and hybrid of them

I hope you like getting manhandled… because you’re getting manhandled

You hear “I bet you’d like that” and “Shut up! You know you like it”

I also hope you’re okay with coming out with some scratches and mild bruises… because coming out with some scratches and bruises

Honestly, any type of degrading/controlling stuff you want like impact, hair pulling, slapping, scratching, grabbing, etc you want. She’s got it. Shes got some anger to let out and this is great to let it all out

Whether it’s Salesperson or Meanie, you’re screaming either way

#ena dream bbq x reader #dream bbq ena x reader #ena x reader #dream bbq ena #ena dream bbq #dream bbq ena smut #dream bbq ena x reader smut

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jungwnies · 3 months ago

Text

sfw alphabet | max verstappen (mv1)

୨ৎ : synopsis : sfw a-z alphabet for max verstappen

୨ৎ : word count : 1483

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

(a/n) : don't forget to like & reblog !! my requests are open!

a ⤖ affection (how affectionate is he? how often does he show affection?)

not overly affectionate in public, but very touchy in private

loves casual touches...

like a hand on your back, fingers playing with yours, resting his arm around you

shows love in quiet, consistent ways rather than big romantic gestures

instinctively reaches for your hand or pulls you closer in his sleep

b ⤖ beginning (what would he be like as a bsf; how would the friendship start?)

chaotic, competitive, and fiercely loyal as a friend

will challenge you to literally everything (even things you don’t care about)

loves to tease and roast you, but in a way that’s lowkey affectionate

likely met through mutual friends or the f1 world, but once he trusts you, you’re stuck with him

c ⤖ cuddles (does he like to cuddle; how would he cuddle?)

selective cuddler tbh

only cuddles when he’s in the mood or exhausted

prefers being the big spoon but will let you lay on his chest when he’s feeling soft

loves lazy couch cuddles after long days, usually while watching something

if he falls asleep on you?

good luck moving...he’s not letting go

d ⤖ domestic (does he want to settle down; how good is he at cooking and cleaning?)

100% sees himself settling down but probably later in life

absolutely useless in the kitchen...will either burn something or order food

not messy, but not overly tidy

his version of "clean" is "organized chaos"

will attempt to help with chores but gets distracted easily

e ⤖ ending (if he had to break up with you; how would he do it?)

hates confrontation but wouldn’t ghost you, he’d be direct

tries to keep it short and emotionless, but if he really loves you, he’ll struggle

might distance himself beforehand to prepare for it

avoids drama, doesn’t believe in dragging things out once a decision is made

bro wants to be "nonchalant" but the nonchalant def isn't in the room with us LMFAO

f ⤖ fiance (how does he feel about commitment; would he want to get married quick?)

i think we ALL know this man is NOT in a rush to get married

but he definitely takes commitment seriously

if he’s all in, he’s all in

wouldn’t rush marriage but once he knows, he knows

doesn’t care about a huge wedding, but he’d want it to be private and meaningful

would probably propose in a low-key, intimate moment rather than something flashy

g ⤖ gentle (how gentle is he; emotionally + physically?)

physically? very gentle when it matters, especially with you

emotionally? a bit rough around the edges but gets softer over time

will check in on you in his own way, even if it’s just “did you eat?”

protective rather than soft

he expresses care through actions rather than words

h ⤖ hugs (does he likes hugs; how often does he hug you; what are his hugs like?)

not a big hugger with most people, but with you, it’s different

back hugs are his thing

he’ll wrap his arms around you randomly

hugs you tighter when he’s stressed, like he needs to recharge

quick shoulder squeezes when he’s busy but still wants to show affection

i ⤖ i love you (how fast does he say he loves you?)

takes his time

won’t say it unless he truly means it

might show it through actions first before actually saying the words

when he finally says it, it’s unexpected but sincere

prefers proving it over saying it constantly

j ⤖ jealousy (how jealous does he get; what does he do when he is jealous?)

competitive by nature, so he gets lowkey jealous but won’t admit it

if another guy is flirting with you, he’ll hover nearby and make his presence known

gets grumpy and sulky, but instead of arguing, he’ll just claim you with casual touches

if it really bothers him, he’ll confront you privately but won’t cause a scene

k ⤖ kisses (what are his kisses like; where does he like to kiss you; where does he like to be kissed?)

slow and deep kisses rather than rushed pecks

loves forehead kisses when he’s feeling soft

jawline/neck kisses are his go-to when he’s feeling playful

likes when you kiss his shoulder or temple

it makes him feel secure

l ⤖ little ones (how is he around children?)

surprisingly good with kids (penelope literally loves him), but he’ll never admit it

would be a fun dad but also slightly panicked when they cry

gets super competitive even in kid’s games...will not let them win on purpose

protective over his own kids, will be the type to coach their karting career if they’re interested

m ⤖ morning (how are mornings spent with him?)

not a morning person unless it’s race day

grumpy and groggy for the first 15 minutes... prob longer than that tbh

needs coffee before human interaction

if you wake up before him, expect a sleepy arm pulling you back to bed

n ⤖ night (how are nights spent with him?)

winds down with gaming or watching sports

loves quiet moments

just being next to you is enough

gets weirdly philosophical late at night

sleeps better when you’re beside him

o ⤖ open (when would he open up; does he say everything at once or does he wait to reveal himself?)

takes time to open up

he’s naturally guarded let's blame jos for this

won’t talk about feelings unless he trusts you completely

expresses emotions through actions more than words

if he does open up, it’s late at night when he’s relaxed

p ⤖ patience (how easily angered is he?)

short temper, especially under stress

gets frustrated quickly but calms down just as fast

easily annoyed by small things, but he’s not one to hold grudges

if he gets mad at you, he needs a moment alone to cool off

bro is just a chill guy ... but he definitely has his moments lmfao

q ⤖ quizzes (how much would he remember about you; does he remember every little detail; or is he forgetful?)

surprisingly good memory

remembers random facts about you

might forget small things like dates, but remembers what actually matters

can recall your order at any restaurant

will bring up something you said months ago, proving he listens more than you think

r ⤖ remember (what is his favorite moment in the relationship?)

probably the first time he realized he wanted to be with you seriously

a moment when you comforted him after a rough race

some random, quiet memory that doesn’t seem big but means a lot to him

s ⤖ security (how protective is he; how does he protect you; how would he like to be protected?)

very protective but not overbearing

keeps an arm around you in crowded places

will 100% throw hands if someone disrespects you

prepares for every situation

makes sure you’re safe before himself

t ⤖ try (how much effort does he put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

not a grand gesture kind of guy, but he makes an effort in his own way

remembers important dates, but don’t expect anything over-the-top

his idea of a good date is something fun and casual

like karting, a race weekend getaway, or a quiet dinner

when he gets you gifts, they’re usually thoughtful and practical rather than extravagant

u ⤖ ugly (what are some of his bad habits?)

terrible at texting back

sometimes leaves you on read for hours (or days)

stubborn as hell...once he’s made up his mind, good luck changing it

can be emotionally closed off, struggles to talk about feelings

terrible at sitting still

always fidgeting, moving, or doing something

v ⤖ vanity (how concerned is he with his looks?)

lowkey vain without admitting it

takes care of his appearance but acts like he doesn’t care

hates bad hair days...if it’s not sitting right, he gets annoyed

wears team gear constantly, even outside of f1 events

secretly likes when you compliment his looks, even though he plays it cool

w ⤖ whole (would he feel incomplete without you?)

wouldn’t admit it easily, but yes, you’re a huge part of his life

when you’re apart, he gets restless

doesn’t know what to do with himself

hates sleeping alone once he’s used to having you around

if you ever broke up, he’d pretend he’s fine but would be absolutely miserable

x ⤖ xtra (random headcanon for him)

obsessed with winning at everything

even dumb games like mario kart

takes you on late-night drives just to clear his mind

collects race helmets like trophies and would 100% gift you one of his as a sentimental gesture

gets pouty when you beat him at something, but secretly loves that you challenge him-

y ⤖ yuck (what are some things he wouldn't like; in general or in a partner?)

hates unnecessary drama

if you’re constantly picking fights, he’ll check out fast

doesn’t like overly clingy behavior, needs his personal space sometimes

fake people piss him off

he values honesty above all

dislikes when people try too hard to impress him...he def prefers authenticity

z ⤖ zzz (what are his sleeping habits?)

moves a lot in his sleep

sometimes ends up half on top of you without realizing

needs to sleep in complete darkness, otherwise he gets annoyed

prefers falling asleep with you next to him bc he finds it comforting

if you wake up before him and try to leave, he’ll instinctively pull you back into bed

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cbeargyu · 2 days ago

Text

跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife – EPILOGUE

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven

warnings: explicit smut (multiple scenes), dom/sub dynamics, power play, breeding kink, degradation praise, spanking, explicit dirty talk, creampie, possessiveness, worship kink, rough sex, emotionally charged sex, soft aftercare, public display of dominance, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, death of a sibling (mentioned), grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity (organized crime themes), arranged marriage (turned consensual), emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles (challenged), parenthood, tattoos/irezumi (traditional), symbolic death/rebirth, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension.

wc: 2,3k

part i. part ii.

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss @turtash @amazinggraxia @rubiiisyeon @doiestars @7dreambaby @joepomonerof @hanxxz @sunghoonsgfreal @evebionc @unlikelyeaglegirl @hyucksnctzen

by 2004, the house felt different.

not smaller, not quieter — just fuller. the halls that once echoed with tension now hummed with the sounds of daily life: children’s footsteps chasing one another down the engawa, the murmur of a radio left on in the kitchen, the rustle of sliding doors pulled open and shut by hands that had never known violence. it was the same house, the same bones, the same garden just outside — now blooming again with early summer peonies and camellias — but something had shifted permanently. there was warmth where once there had only been steel.

yuta had changed too.

not softened — never that. he still ruled with precision, still carried the weight of his name and history with that quiet, dangerous grace that made men straighten their spines when he entered a room. but he had grown into something more. not just the oyabun of a clan that had expanded and stabilized under his leadership, but a man who no longer ran from his past — a man who returned to the shrine every year on the same date, with a boy at his side whose hand fit almost perfectly in his own.

shotaro was seven now.

sharp-eyed, quiet like his father, though he laughed easier, with a crooked grin he hadn’t inherited from either of you. he asked questions constantly — about honor, about names, about the tattoos he was not yet old enough to understand. yuta answered them all, never speaking down to him, never sugarcoating. and when he’d asked last winter, in the soft hush of snowfall outside, why he was named after someone in the ground, yuta had knelt, placed a hand on his shoulder, and simply said, “because the man you’re named after taught me what it means to protect something. and now that name belongs to you.”

and then there was tsubaki.

your daughter had arrived two springs ago, born under the bloom of the tree you had planted after your wedding. her name meant “camellia,” a flower symbolic of strength, love, and resilience — one that thrived even in cold seasons, blooming when others withered. and she lived up to every syllable of it. bright, fearless, stubborn as rain — with your eyes and your temper, and yuta’s impossible ability to control a room without speaking. she had already declared, at the age of two, that she would marry no one unless they brought her three swords and a horse, which shotaro immediately promised to steal for her. neither of you corrected them.

riku still came by every sunday.

he had changed the most — at least on the surface. now living in a glass-and-gold penthouse high above namba, he had risen through the clan ranks with that same street-born cunning and loyalty that had once earned him the right to drive your car in silence. he wore imported suits now, changed women like watches, and arrived smelling of expensive cologne and nights without sleep. but he never missed a visit to his mother, never missed a birthday, never looked at your children without that same big-brother warmth that had once shielded you both from the world outside.

the clan had grown too.

under yuta’s leadership, it had evolved — not sanitized, never clean, but refined. operations were quieter now, more surgical, layered with strategy and diplomacy that reached far beyond osaka. territories were protected, alliances kept in balance, and his name no longer needed to be shouted to be known. in meetings, he still sat in silence more than he spoke, but when he did, the room fell still. and you — you were still at his side. not as a shadow, but as his reflection. you handled affairs that didn’t touch violence directly: the security of the women, the education of the next generation, the negotiation of small conflicts before they became large ones. sometimes your word alone was enough to prevent bloodshed. you had learned how to wield power without raising your voice.

tonight, the house was quiet again, the kind of quiet that only came after everyone had gone to sleep. the children had been tucked in hours ago, shotaro with his wooden sword beside the futon, tsubaki curled up with her face in your old wedding kimono — the red silk wrapped around her like a dragon’s embrace. you had lingered a moment longer in their room, brushing her hair back from her forehead, listening to the way yuta’s footsteps slowed outside the door before continuing on.

now, he waited for you in the bedroom, already half-undressed, the soft glow of paper lanterns casting long shadows across his back. the tattoos were still vivid, still beautiful, age only adding depth to the black and gray lines that curled over his shoulder blades like the memory of fire. his robe hung loose around his waist, his hands resting in his lap. when you entered, he looked up and smiled — not the smirk he gave the world, not the careful calm he used with the clan, but something smaller. reserved only for you.

“they asleep?” he asked.

you nodded, untying your robe.

“both,” you said. “though tsubaki was threatening to lead a coup if we didn’t let her sleep in our bed again.”

he laughed under his breath, eyes following the silk as it slipped from your shoulders.

“she gets that from you.”

“i get the blame for everything.”

“you get the credit, too,” he said, rising, crossing the room toward you. “for this house. for the way i survived myself. for both of them.”

he stopped in front of you, hands coming to your hips, mouth brushing your jaw.

“for making me want more than survival.”

you leaned into him, pressing your palms against his bare chest.

“and what do you want now, nakamoto?”

he didn’t answer with words.

he pushed you gently back onto the bed, his body following yours, one knee parting your thighs as his lips dragged across your collarbone, slow and unhurried. he worshipped you as he had that very first night — with a hunger honed by time, shaped by memory. his hands roamed the map of your body like it was the territory he had built everything on, his tongue tracing the edge of your tattoo before sinking lower.

“mine,” he whispered, voice low, rough. “still. always.”

you gasped as he filled you — deep and claiming — his pace slow but punishing, each thrust purposeful, each breath a promise. he didn’t have to ask permission anymore. you gave him everything long ago. but tonight, he still earned it, inch by inch, word by word.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he growled against your neck. “mark you from the inside this time. want to see it drip from you, want to watch it take.”

you whimpered, the sound lost between kisses and heat, your body arching as he pressed harder, faster, claiming you like only he could.

“gonna make you beg,” he hissed, grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head. “show you who you belong to.”

“you,” you gasped. “only you.”

he smiled — dark, triumphant, adoring — and fucked you harder, deeper, until your cries turned into broken syllables and your body trembled beneath his. when you came, it was with his name on your tongue, and when he followed, spilling into you with a low growl, it was with his hands cradling your face like you were the only thing still holding him to the earth.

afterward, he didn’t move from you for a long time.

just held you, your legs tangled, your breathing slow, your bodies sticky and warm and still joined.

“we made something beautiful,” he murmured, his hand on your stomach, your heart, your life.

“we did,” you whispered back, lips brushing his.

and outside the window, beneath the stars, the camellia tree swayed — blooming, still, after all these years.

you had left modeling the year after the ceremony.

not the wedding — that had been for politics, for tradition, for the sake of appearances. but the second one, the real one, the one held in the temple courtyard with your hand in yuta’s and the clan kneeling before you in reverent silence — that was when everything shifted. after that, the camera no longer felt like a doorway to your future. it felt like a relic. a different skin you had already shed.

there were reasons, of course. you were now the wife of an oyabun, a woman of weight and presence in a house watched by too many eyes. the responsibilities were real, and heavy, and sometimes they left little room for dreams you once chased across magazine pages and studio lights. you stepped down without bitterness. not because the dream had died — but because it had simply evolved. power, after all, had many forms. and now yours wore silk, moved quietly, and negotiated the survival of families with a single glance across a tatami room.

still, from time to time, the itch returned — subtle, low beneath your skin. so every few seasons, you would indulge it. a private session. a camera. sometimes a friend from your past came to shoot, someone who understood that this wasn’t for publications, for fame, for the market. these photos weren’t meant for the world. they were for you. and for him.

you posed in lace, in silk, in shadows. sometimes wearing only his haori, your tattoos catching the light in deliberate contrast to the softness of your skin. you never smiled in those pictures. only stared into the lens like you were daring it to forget who you had become.

yuta never watched you shoot. he always let you have that space — but he waited outside the room like a man expecting something sacred. and later, once the photos were printed and arranged in the quiet privacy of your study, he kept them. not hidden. just protected. a lacquered album on the highest shelf, filled with his wife — his woman — arching across bedsheets, eyes half-lidded with power, with pride. he opened it on long nights sometimes, when the house was quiet and the city below dared to forget who ruled it. he’d look through the pages slowly, fingers brushing each image like a prayer.

“mine,” he would whisper. “mine forever.”

in the summer of that year, shotaro turned eight.

he asked to visit the shrine again.

this time, you let him go alone with yuta. you stayed behind with tsubaki, brushing her hair on the veranda, the scent of roasted barley tea drifting from the kitchen. she sat still for once, curious eyes turned toward the mountain path that had taken her brother and father out of sight.

at the shrine, yuta let shotaro walk ahead.

the boy moved with quiet steps, his hands respectfully tucked into the sleeves of his light jinbei, the dragon-embroidered sandals scraping softly against the stone. he carried a single flower — a white camellia, picked from the tree you had planted years ago. he had asked why it mattered. you had told him, “because it blooms even in the cold, and some names are meant to live forever.”

when they reached the grave, yuta didn’t speak. he watched as his son knelt before the stone, bowed deeply, and placed the flower carefully at the base.

“thank you,” the boy said quietly. “for my name. for my father.”

he bowed again.

and somewhere, just behind the trees, the wind moved like a breath held and released.

that fall, you watched tsubaki from the doorway of the meeting hall.

she was barefoot, small but composed, standing at the edge of the gathering like she belonged to it. she didn’t speak. didn’t fidget. just stood with her arms behind her back, head tilted slightly — listening.

the men watched her, but no one dared correct her presence.

not with you in the room.

not with yuta at the head of the table, his eyes flickering to his daughter only once before returning to the conversation about territory, expansion, diplomacy.

afterwards, she ran to you.

“they listen to you,” she said with a child’s solemnity. “and they listen to papa. so one day, they’ll listen to me.”

you smiled faintly and knelt beside her.

“and what will you say when they do?”

she considered the question, frowning slightly.

“i’ll say that peace doesn’t mean softness. it means knowing where to place your blade.”

you didn’t laugh. only kissed the top of her head.

“good girl.”

years from now, perhaps it would all change. perhaps shotaro would take over the clan or tsubaki would carve her own empire from the bones of your name. perhaps the city would grow beyond your reach. but for now, in the golden hush of late afternoon, your legacy was safe. not in money. not in territory. but in the way your son placed his hand on his sister’s shoulder when she spoke. in the way yuta looked at you like nothing else had ever made sense before you. in the way your story — once marked by silence and fire and fear — now unfolded in softness, in laughter, in roots that stretched deeper than any wound.

one night, when the children were asleep and the world outside was too loud to hear, yuta pulled you into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. he didn’t speak. just kissed you slow. deep. hands finding the familiar path of your hips, your breasts, the soft bend of your knees.

he made love to you the way a man remembers — every scar, every sound, every place you had once trembled. and when he came inside you, forehead pressed to yours, whispering your name like an incantation, he didn’t ask for permission or forgiveness.

he simply said:

“thank you for staying. thank you for becoming everything i never knew how to ask for.”

and you smiled, the weight of time and joy and sorrow pooled between your bodies, and answered:

“thank you for giving me a name worth carrying.”

outside, the wind moved through the camellia tree again — still blooming.

always blooming.

just like you.

172 notes · View notes

gav-san · 2 days ago

Text

Cosmic Joke: Portgas D. Ace

Cosmic Bond Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

Oneshot: Ace x Reader Length: 14 K+ Rating: 16+

Having Ace as a soulmate is like dating a clingy campfire with feelings. He’s loud, loyal, and fully prepared to self-immolate if you so much as shiver, mentally or physically. He’s been obsessed since puberty—and yes, he still thinks spontaneous combustion is a valid love language. “If my soulmate’s cold, I’ll just set myself on fire. Easy fix.” Now you are scared and cold.

Character Suggestion by @dead-cipher

-Bond Awakening-

It started innocently enough.

You are normal. At least, you try to be. You pay your taxes (when applicable), respect your elders (unless they’re creeps), and only scream into your pillow when absolutely necessary. You grew up in a modest village where nothing exciting ever happened—except, of course, for the fact that you’ve had a pirate in your head since age six.

You’re aggressively normal. You like toast. You do your taxes early. You read books in quiet corners and have strong opinions about brand-name toothpaste. You are average with a capital A.

At first, the bond felt innocent enough. There were brief flickers of emotion, bits of curiosity, and the occasional overwhelming urge to punch something and then apologize to it.

Then the voice started speaking in full sentences; chaotic, unfiltered, and alarmingly sincere.

“I hope he knows I love him even if I punched him. In the face.”

“If I die, I want to die doing something cool. Like falling into lava to save a kitten.”

“Do whales get lonely?”

“If I set this on fire and run away fast enough, technically it’s not my fault.”

A loud voice. With zero filter. And no self-preservation instinct.

It wasn’t just thoughts. You had vivid dreams of eating everything within a fifty-mile radius. You’d wake up laughing at jokes you never told. Or screaming, because some distant, invisible dumbass decided to fight a Sea King at age ten.

You knew what it meant. The telepathic thread had been there since childhood. Most people got soft hums of emotion, the occasional comforting whisper.

“Oi, how many push-ups does it take to break a tree?” “I should punch that guy. No reason. Just vibes.” “If I die young, bury me in meat.”

His name, as you eventually piece together through years of one-sided nonsense, is Ace.

Full name?

Portgas D. Ace

You’re just a normal, average person with a skincare routine and a deathly fear of taxes. Which is exactly why the universe, in its infinite humor, decided to tether your soul to Ace. He’s a human wildfire with the emotional processing skills of a stray golden retriever and the attention span of a sunburned raccoon.

His hobbies include: eating until death seems imminent, throwing hands with gods and warlords, spontaneous arson, and emotionally repressing every feeling that isn’t hunger or homicidal loyalty.

You’ve never met him. But you’ve heard him. He doesn’t know you exist. But you know him.

You know he doesn’t believe in soulmates. You know he eats like a vacuum. You know he cries alone at night and pretends he doesn’t. You know he got his first tattoo on a dare. And unfortunately… You also know that he once set a spider on fire to impress someone. (He regrets it. The spider haunted him in a dream. He whispered an apology three years later.)

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut

Age 7: "Do you think seagulls ever get depressed?" You were in math class. Trying to learn multiplication tables. Your soulmate, somewhere out there, was staring into the ocean like a tiny, unmedicated philosopher with a flair for existential bird-based melancholy.

You blinked. Raised your hand. Asked to use the bathroom. Sat on the toilet and whispered, “What?”

Age 8: "If I became a pirate, do you think they’d let me keep my blanket?" It was a sincere question. It made your heart ache. Not because it was sweet, but because you realized your soulmate was already planning his outlaw era.

Age 10: “If I get eaten by a sea king, tell Luffy I died hot.”

You were sitting in the back of the library, hunched over a weathered copy of Advanced Multiplication, when the voice echoed across your skull with all the solemnity of a soldier’s final words.

You blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.

The voice—his voice—sounded older now. Still boyish, still rough around the edges, but with the kind of melodramatic resignation only a twelve-year-old could muster with such commitment. He sounded like someone who’d stared death in the face and decided to make it weird.

You turned the page. Pretended not to hear.

Other children had imaginary friends. You had this.

A borderline-delinquent who philosophized about death, grilled fish, and sea birds like they were moral arbiters of heaven and hell. A boy with a voice like fire and laughter, who once gave you a blow-by-blow breakdown of how to win a fistfight with a wild boar. He narrated everything. Bad decisions. Petty theft. Emotional spirals. The occasional hallucination.

You never answered. Not once. You were practiced. Well-trained. Unshakable.

But fate, as it often does, waited patiently to make you suffer.

-The Cold War-

Age 13:

It began with a whisper. Then a crackle. Then—suddenly, violently—“BOOBS.”

You choked mid-sip of your tea. Nearly stabbed yourself with your own pencil. The word reverberated in your head like a cannon blast, unfiltered and aggressively enthusiastic. There was silence. A stunned, terrible silence.

And then his voice, slightly breathless and awestruck: “I just… wow. That bartender was built like a miracle. Do you think she noticed me? Should I have said something? Was ‘You have nice elbows’ too weird?”

You sat motionless at the kitchen table, pencil still mid-stroke in a math equation you would never, ever finish. You could feel your soul physically detaching from your body.

Almost seven years. Seven. Seven years of absurdity. Of hunger rants. Of emotional crises about clouds that looked like parental neglect. Of vivid psychic broadcasts of every single dumb fight, scar, and mood swing.

But this? This crossed a line.

You stood. Slowly. Like a woman wronged. Marched outside. And screamed into the dirt like an ancient priestess channeling divine rage.

Somewhere, far away, a bird fell out of a tree from secondhand embarrassment.

“NO!” you yelled into the sky, fists clenched. “YOU DO NOT GET TO BE HORNY AND STUPID. PICK ONE!”

And somewhere, across sea and wind and sky— He heard you.

A pause. A stunned intake of breath.

“…Wait,” his voice said, softer now. “That was you. You talked. You’re real. Oh my god, who are you? Tell me your name. Tell me your location. I’ll find you. I swear—I’ll find you.”

You didn’t scream again. You didn’t cry. You didn’t faint. You simply answered, tone flat and final:

“No. I’m retracting my existence. Goodbye.”

And then you slammed the door—metaphysically, psychically, spiritually—and mentally filed a full restraining order against fate.

He did not take it well.

“Was it the boob thing? I swear I respect women. I mean—I don’t not notice them, but I’m not, like, a pervert. Just observational. Please respond. I haven’t eaten in four hours. I don’t know why that matters, but emotionally it feels important.”

You do not.

“If I die of heartbreak and/or starvation, tell Luffy I—wait. You already know. I died hot.”

By day four, he’d reached the melodramatic stage of soulmate grief.

“I’ve named the seagull that keeps following me. His name is Betrayal.”

You ignored him. You hardened your mind like iron. Practiced psychic silence like a religion.

But some nights, when the world was quiet and your guard slipped, you still felt the flicker of him at the edge of your thoughts: warm, restless, and ridiculous.

And once—just once—you heard him whisper through the bond, low and serious, voice heavy with something new.

“Please just let me know you’re okay. I’ll wait–”

You didn’t reply. Not then. But after the quiet way he whispered I’ll wait like a vow instead of a threat—you found yourself staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Overthinking. Trying very hard not to care.

And failing.

Just a little.

Eventually, grudgingly, with the emotional grace of someone returning to a party they swore they left forever…you let him back in. Not fully. Not warmly. Not with words so much as intention. But with conditions.

He wasn’t allowed to interrupt test days. No horny thoughts before noon. Absolutely no narrating your dreams back to you with commentary like, “Whoa, that one had symbolism.” And if he wanted to share his feelings, he had to at least pretend to have emotional self-awareness.

Naturally, he ignored all of this.

You became a master of selective tuning. His chaotic thoughts drifted through your mind like white noise: background nonsense you could mute with a blink. You mastered the sacred art of psychic eye-rolls.

He, in turn, began calling you “Mystery Babe” when you humored him and “Invisible Gremlin” when you roasted him into the dirt. You answered once in a blue moon. Just enough to ruin his day.

Like, “You fell off that cliff because you tried to flirt mid-backflip. Not because the ground betrayed you.”

Or, “Your idea of stealth is shouting ‘this way, boys’ at full volume.”

Or, worst of all: “I don’t dream about you. You sound like you smell like firewood and have impulse control issues.”

And Ace? He lost his entire damn mind. Delightfully. Publicly. Apocalyptically.

He became obsessed. Utterly, wildly, romantically feral.

Because now he knew you were out there. Real. Sharp. Hidden. The girl who outsmarted fate, ghosted destiny, and occasionally replied just to hand him his own ego on a silver platter.

You weren’t sweet. You weren’t eager. You weren’t simping.

You were just mean enough to be hot.

Like a mirage that tells you to hydrate and die.

And it was ruining him.

His crewmates noticed immediately.

“Is Ace talking to himself again?” “No, he’s arguing with his soulmate.” “…Does she answer?” “Only to mock him.”

They started calling you The Phantom. Deuce took bets on whether you were real. Skull tried to flirt with the empty air once and got psychically blasted with, “Not you, oil-slick.”

By week three of your emotionally distant reappearance, Ace had declared—loudly, mid-fight, while on fire, “I don’t need to find the One Piece. I need to find my soulmate, so I can formally apologize for my horny teenage brain and then ask them to punch me in the face.”

There was silence.

Then the enemy captain nodded solemnly. “That’s valid,” he said, before Ace knocked him out. And honestly? Probably the most emotionally mature thing Ace had ever said.

And you almost responded. Almost. But instead… You smiled. And went back to ignoring him.

Age 15:

“I’m gonna fight this volcano. I’ve got it. No regrets.”

It came in loud and proud, mid-afternoon. You were standing in line at the pharmacy, waiting for cold medicine, when your soulmate decided to challenge a natural disaster to a duel.

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. He kept going.

“If it kills me, bury me with snacks. And a sword. Even if I didn’t have one. Just for the drama.” You pressed your fingers to your temples like you could pinch the psychic connection out of existence.

He was persistent. And worse, he was charming.

In the most idiotic, reckless, infuriatingly loyal golden retriever way imaginable.

He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t smooth. He was a walking campfire with sass and a dangerously low number of self-preservation instincts.

You were not speaking, but still, he talked to you.

“If I ever meet you, I hope you hate me at first,” he said once, quieter than usual. “That way, I can earn it. I wanna earn it.”

“I’d probably ruin your life,” he admitted another time. “But like… nicely?”

“Maybe you don’t exist. Maybe I got the broken kind of bond.”

And then, worst of all, the one that landed like a stone in your chest: “If you’re real, I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

You hate that he sounds sincere.

Age 16:

You are entirely convinced this man should be institutionalized.

You learn to live around him. You train your face not to react when he narrates his internal monologues mid-battle. You do not try to talk back. You’ve heard what happens when soulmates do that. It's called “dumbass feedback loop.” Two people yelling in each other’s heads until someone faints.

Instead, you simply exist. Quietly. Carefully. You’re old enough to drop out of school and change locations, which you do, and often. Use fake names. Pick villages with low foot traffic. Avoid taverns where Wanted Posters hang.

Ace, for his part, is infuriated by this.

He doesn’t know who you are. Doesn’t know where you are. Can’t even figure out your gender for the first ten years. He only knows you exist because he keeps trying to scream into the void, and you never scream back.

Which, of course, drives him completely insane.

He grows up.

You do too. You get better at tuning him out.

Until one day.

“I think I’m being followed. That guy has weird teeth. I might punch him. If I die, sorry, soulmate. I wish I had kissed someone.”

You freeze. Because it’s the first time he’s said anything that sounded like a goodbye. You don’t respond, and you find the words can’t break the door you’ve built open. But you stay up all night anyway. Eyes on the ceiling. Fingernails biting your palms.

The next day?

He’s fine.

“That guy was weird, but I gave him my sandwich. He cried. I cried. We’re friends now.”

You sob into your pillow.

Ace, Age 17:

“Okay, look. If you’re real. If you’re out there. Just… tap something. Whisper. Blink twice mentally.”

You: (mentally blinking once, for spite)

You become excellent at mental firewalling. He starts testing you.

“Do you like meat? Just tell me that. I won’t track you down. Probably. If you don’t respond in 3 seconds, I’m gonna assume you’re dead and go commit arson in your honor.”

Eventually, he starts talking to you the way people talk to their diaries; with sarcasm and later, sincerity.

That’s when things get complicated.

Because, behind all the reckless noise and weird thoughts about trying to headbutt a sea emperor, there’s this ache. This softness you weren’t expecting. He starts wondering out loud if he deserves a soulmate. Starts apologizing when he’s angry. Tells you about Luffy, about Sabo, and his untimely death (you sob for hours). About the fire in his chest that never quite goes out.

He doesn't even know you're listening.

And you wish you weren’t.

Because now it hurts. Now you want to answer.

But you don’t. You can’t. You know what kind of people hunt soulmates, especially ones with D. in their name. If the Navy finds you, they’ll use you. If pirates find you, they’ll sell you. And if Ace finds you?

...You don’t know what he’d do. But it’d probably involve grinning, dramatic declarations, and upsetting explosions.

So, instead, you run. You hide. You exist in the margins. You watch from the edges of the news whenever you hear about Whitebeard’s crew. You silently cheer when you read about them protecting islands and sinking slaver ships.

You almost cry the first time Ace calls you “my tether.” And then he follows it with “which sounds weird and kinda kinky, but spiritually accurate.”

You throw a spoon across the room.

You talk to him for the first time—really talk to him—when you’re seventeen.

It’s been eleven years of chaotic background noise. Of pirate shenanigans, shirtless bragging, impromptu wrestling matches, and unsolicited thoughts about meat, knives, ghosts, fire, and, occasionally, emotional devastation disguised as jokes.

You’ve learned to compartmentalize him. A psychic raccoon rummaging around your mental trash cans. Sometimes loud, sometimes weirdly insightful. Always there.

But that year?

That’s the year you hear him cry.

You don’t even know what triggers it. You’re just heading home, a basket of bread in one hand, the sun warm on your shoulders, when suddenly the world goes sideways.

“Why does it keep happening?”

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s broken. Quiet. He’s not performing. Not cracking jokes. Just sitting somewhere, talking to no one. Maybe himself.

Maybe you.

“I keep losing everyone.” A breath. “First Sabo. Now the Spade Pirates.” He swallows hard. You feel it in your ribs. “I try to be good. But…”

Silence.

Then the whisper that shatters something soft in your chest:

“...Maybe I don’t deserve anyone.”

You stop walking.

Right there. In the middle of the road. The wind is gentle. Your throat is not.

You hesitate. For too long. Long enough to almost let it pass.

“You do.”

The word is small. Just one. But it slams into him like a cannonball.

“WH—NO WAY.” His voice skyrockets into disbelief. “You talked again! You—you heard all of that?! Forget it! UNHEAR IT. I sounded like a tragic romance novel. I need a redo.”

You roll your eyes.

“You sounded like a dumbass in pain. Which is slightly better than your usual dumbass setting.”

“Oh my god, you’re perfect.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

He doesn’t.

“Wait—WAIT—this is real. You’re real. You’re not dead or a voice invented by head trauma or—wait, you’re not a tree, right? I once emotionally confessed to a tree. It didn’t answer.”

You sigh. Pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I am not a tree. You absolute himbo.”

He makes a sound like he’s been physically electrocuted with joy. And just like that, Ace starts beaming across your bond. Not literally, but it feels like light. Like heat. Like a bonfire on a cold night that you didn’t realize you’d needed.

“This is the best day of my life. Please marry me. Or at least tell me your name. Or insult me again. I’d take any of those.”

You don’t give him your name. Not yet.

But you do say, “I’m not ready for you to find me.”

He pauses. Then softens.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ve got time. Just don’t disappear again, alright?”

-Emotional Fallout-

Age 18:

Ace joins something called ‘The Whitebeard Pirates’.

You quietly wonder if it’s a strip club or a cult.

But now, you’re curious, committed, and listening at metaphoric windows in his mind palace. The crack in your own mental door widens. Just enough that you know unconsciously are transmitting some spare thoughts.

Enough that you may accidentally transmit more details than you intend.

It’s not a scream. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not even a thought meant for him. It’s a snort. Of all things. A quiet, private, mental snort of disbelief.

You’ve spent your whole life avoiding him.

And honestly? You’ve been excellent at it.

Fake names. Remote towns. A personal blacklist of any island that’s ever whispered “Whitebeard.” You were disciplined. Focused. Determined not to let your soulmate ruin your peace.

Because you knew too much.

You’d heard his thoughts since childhood—unfiltered, uninvited, and deeply, profoundly stupid. You’d heard him fart. Cry. Argue with seagulls. Wonder aloud if crabs feel jealousy. You’d built up a mental image of a human raccoon with fire powers and the emotional depth of a wet sock.

And for years, that was fine.

Until today.

When you see it, you’re at a sleepy little port, casually browsing a message board for work. A wanted poster with a familiar name.

You glance. Just a peek.

And freeze.

Name: Portgas D. Ace.

Bounty: Irrelevant.

Expression: A curl at this lips lifting up like sin.

The creature is hot.

And a pirate.

But more important— He’s unethically hot. Shirt-open, jaw-sharp, lean-muscle, freckles-like-a-gift-from-God hot.

You envisioned a gremlin with muscles and zero self-preservation. You expected a 6-foot-tall disaster man held together by ego, duct tape, and barbecue sauce.

But this?

And he is divine punishment in man form. Shirt half-buttoned (barely). Freckles like stardust. Muscles that have never known a shirt that fits. A smile that should be federally regulated.

And dimples. Dimples.

He looks like he rolled out of a bonfire, forgot what a brush is, and still makes grown adults walk into walls. He looks like someone who would text “You up?” at 2 AM, and mean it platonically, then absolutely ruin your life in bed.

You sit on a bench. You stare at the poster. The wind rustles. Somewhere, someone sneezes.

You mutter, “Oh no. He’s hot. I am so screwed.”

Because now there’s a problem.

You’ve spent over a decade building immunity to his personality.

But no one prepared you for the smoulder.

And the worst part?

He feels it.

Ace is halfway through fighting a sea king when it hits. He literally pauses mid-punch.

“Holy crap,” he whispers. “They noticed me.”

Marco looks up. “Who?”

“My soulmate thinks I’m hot.”

He beams like the sun just kissed him. He fights a sea king out of pure euphoria. He gives a romantic speech to a palm tree.

And when he laughs—low and rough, like warm honey with a death wish—your brain short-circuits.

And he lets you have it.

“Hey!” Even his mentally transmitted voice is a problem. Sleep-rough and smug, “Miss me, baby? Bet you were thinking about me again. Don’t lie—I felt it. You feel really pretty in your head. Want me to walk you through it again?”

You tried everything.

Cold showers. Meditation. Punching someone for fun.

Nothing works.

Because Ace is a wildfire in human skin and bad decisions.

And worst of all?

He knows.

“I’ll let you touch the V-line if you say please.”

You’ve considered hurling yourself overboard more than once. But unfortunately, Ace can swim in your head. And he’s always shirtless when he gets there. You’ve moved ten times. Changed names. Changed continents.

Ace? Unbothered. Thriving. Intensifying. He starts taking notes. (They’re mostly unreadable. But it’s the effort.) He’s narrowed it down. He knows you’re alive and that you move often. That you’ve been dodging fate with Olympic-level skill.

He’s not mad.

He’s impressed.

“You’ve been dodging destiny like a pro. Damn. Marry me.” Now he daydreams about meeting you mid-brawl. Or during a cursed artifact heist.

Or stealing the same apple off a rooftop and locking eyes like, “So… this is awkward.”

He doesn’t want a perfect moment. He wants you. Your weird live-stock obsessed brain and all.

And you? You still think he’s reckless, loud, and infuriating. But… maybe…Just maybe…He’s exactly your kind of problem.

Wait. WAIT.

You reel back.

He gets slapped into a rock. He barely notices. He is too busy grinning like a moron.

That’s it.

That’s the moment he decides: He is going to find you.

Before, it was passive curiosity. Now? It’s an obsession. Amusement. Intrigue. Hope.

Someone sarcastic. Someone real. Someone who thinks he’s an idiot (correct). Someone who sounds more like a human person than a divine blessing.

He’s doomed.

He starts doing things he never used to do. Asking questions. Collecting rumors. Not of his soulmate, because no one knows what he’s after, but about soulmates, connections, and how the hell does anyone find each other if they don’t want to?

You dyed your hair the moment his emotional compass started pinging your hometown. You moved when he began fantasizing about coastal bars.

You became an urban legend. The myth. The whisper. That one girl who’s just not answering back.

Somewhere out there, your soulmate has a reputation. He’s one of those with A Silent Bond’. Pirates dare him to try to find you. He drinks too much sometimes and mutters, “She’s real. I know she is.” Someone once asked if maybe you died.

He said, “She didn’t. She’s just better at this than me.”

And you are.

But lately, the voice has been quiet. Too quiet.

Which is why, one night, halfway through brushing your teeth, a warm, raspy thought slips into your skull like a dagger wrapped in velvet, "I think I found your hometown, but you’re already gone...You win… this time. But if I see you, I’m still keeping you."

And you choke on your toothbrush.

The next mistake in your proverbial abode being invaded comes quickly.

He first catches a glimpse of you by accident. And it ruins him for days.

The bond has always been mostly one-sided. Him shouting into the abyss, you offering the occasional snarky whisper like some irritated brain ghost with boundary issues. You’ve never slipped. You’ve never let anything real through.

Until that day.

You were distracted. Tired. In the middle of patching a leak in your roof, your arms are covered in sap, and your soul is covered in rage because the only thing worse than your soulmate yelling about meat in your head is leaky ceilings during monsoon season.

And then, just for a flicker, you thought something too loudly.

You didn’t mean to. You were yelling internally about your ladder being possessed and made of evil wood spirits. You were furious with gravity. You were sweaty, sore, and covered in twigs.

And then, like a crack in a door.

He sees you.

Not fully. Just a snapshot, like the first page of a dream:

Sunlight streaking through wet leaves. Your face in half-shadow, eyes squinting up at a broken shingle. A smear of dirt across your cheek. Mouth pressed flat in focus. Your hand raised to swipe your brow, wrist wrapped in a red ribbon that was probably nothing but made his whole chest ache.

And worst of all: You are beautiful.

Not like the kind of “hot” he was always joking about. Not bartender-curvy or saloon-pretty or the fantasy women his crewmates dreamt up. You looked real.

Solid.

Warm.

Like someone he could come home to.

It knocked the breath out of him.

“...Whoa.”

The whisper was involuntary. Barely a word. More like a reverent exhale.

On your side, you froze.

Because you felt it.

You felt the moment he saw. The way the tether between your minds trembled, like it had finally aligned. Like it was no longer just a voice.

It had eyes. And they saw you.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, a little broken. “You’re real. You’re—”

You smacked the bond shut.

So hard, it echoed.

You didn’t talk to him again for two weeks.

And Ace?

Ace spent those two weeks walking around like a man hit by divine lightning.

He tried drawing your face from memory. Failed. Got angry. Started sketching again. Asked Thatch if he’d ever had a religious experience involving a hammer-wielding forest nymph and a red ribbon.

Everyone thought he was concussed.

Marco eventually sat him down and asked if he'd been cursed by a wood sprite. Ace just stared at the table and whispered, “She’s incredible.” And because he’s somehow managed to wedge a figurative foot in the door jam, he gets more glimpses.

It happens at night.

You’re alone, exhausted, curled up in a too-small bed on a too-small island that doesn’t even have proper plumbing. There’s a storm outside, thunder heavy and close, and you’ve been pretending all day that you aren’t upset.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You lie there, trembling. Not with fear. Just with the quiet, suffocating ache of trying to stay strong all the time. And that’s when your thoughts falter.

You let your guard drop.

Across the sea, Ace jolts upright.

Because suddenly, you’re there.

Not a thought. Not a quip. Another glance.

Like a flash through water. You. In the dark. Hunched over your own arms. Quietly crying into a pillow.

Not sobbing. Not loud.

Just… cracking.

Soft and honest and completely unguarded. The window next to your bed is cracked open. The candle is burning low. Your hands are gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to the world.

You don’t even think of his name. But you feel him. And that’s worse.

And he feels everything.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

For once, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches in that stolen second, completely still, as his chest fills with something heavy, protective, and utterly unhinged.

He sees you. The real you.

Not just the sharp voice. Not the teasing distance. But the person beneath it all. Fragile. Furious. Lonely.

“You don’t feel safe,” he realizes. “You don’t feel safe anywhere.”

You snap the bond shut again the second you feel him. It slams so hard he physically stumbles back on the deck of the Moby Dick.

“Hey—! No, wait—!”

Silence.

He doesn’t chase the bond. Not right away. He just sits there, staring into the storm, heart pounding like a drum.

And then, very softly, he whispers to no one.

“You don’t ever have to be alone again, you know. Not with me.”

You huff in annoyance, trying to pull the mental shutters down like you're closing a damn window, but no matter how much you lock them, he's still there, pressing against the edges of your thoughts like he's trying to squeeze through a crack. And damn it, it’s working. His mental presence fills the spaces you’ve tried so hard to keep him out of, and now you can’t stop yourself from giving him all these little snippets of your mind, no matter how much you want to.

And goddamn it, when he decides to stay on your stoop, refusing to budge, there's only so much you can do—the nerve of him. There’s something oddly endearing about how he doesn’t back off, even when your mental voice tells him to just leave. He likes hearing your rambling nonsense, which makes you even more annoyed.

But it’s not just that. It’s the gems he’s pulling from you now. The stupid thoughts you can’t quite hide. Like that one, for example. You thought, just for a second, that the man who joined the Whitebeard's crew was somehow more interested in your bond, for the social aspect of it all. Like maybe he'd just stumbled into your mental space for the friendship and sweet, sweet no-escape bonding time, right?

It’s not completely irrational, right? Maybe a little delusional, but not out there. A guy that big with all that muscle? You really didn’t expect him to fit the “faithful romantic hero” trope—especially with “pirate” as his job title. He’s probably out there throwing hands and other things in every port he visits.

And every time something even remotely flirtatious crosses his mind, you bolt like your brain’s on fire, diving into farm animal facts just to avoid that embarrassing knowledge about what his hormones are up to behind closed doors.

He’s just not interested in you, carnally at least. Why would he be? You’re... you. He’s a famous pirate, a literal fire-bending golden retriever with abs and a fleet. He’s probably got a sexy fishwoman in every port. Hell, you'd fold for a sexy fishwoman, so why shouldn’t he?

But of course, he chooses the worst possible time to clarify. While you’re shopping. In public.

A thought slams into your brain like a meteor dipped in honey and sin.

“You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”

You physically jolt, and the egg vendor takes a step back. “You good?”

You nod, staring into the void. Because that voice—the one you haven’t heard in weeks—is suddenly awake. Smug. Dangerous.

“Not interested?...Not interested?”

A beat of silence.

“You’ve been dodging me for years like a criminal with a crush. You flinched when you saw my poster. You think I didn’t feel that spark? I felt your thirst, babe. It came through like a punch to the solar plexus.”

You grip the egg basket like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You think I’m not interested? I’ve been tracking your emotional wreckage like a lovesick bloodhound with ADHD and a lighter.”

And then, of course, he gets descriptive.

Vivid. Uncomfortably so.

Your knees buckle a little.

“The things I could do if you’d just sit still for five damn minutes,” He practically screams, “And stop thinking about goats. Or cows. Or whatever weird barnyard tangent you go off on when you panic.”

You mentally scream, LIVESTOCK IS A COMFORTING TOPIC, and he laughs out loud in your brain.

It’s a warm, rough laugh that slides down your spine like a sin you weren’t ready to commit.

You drop your eggs.

And he keeps going.

“You think I’m not interested? Baby, I’ve imagined every version of you. Sarcastic. Half-dressed. Mud-covered. Covered in nothing but one of my shirts and bad intentions.”

Your ears go red.

“I’ve had to apologize to my crew for zoning out during a sea battle because you accidentally had a fantasy about kissing someone else. I almost torched an island.”

You drop your entire egg basket this time. Gone, like your dignity.

You storm home.

Slamming the door behind you, you flop onto your bed and shout into a pillow,

“STOP DOING THAT!”

You hear him reply, far too smug,

“Only if you stop pretending you don’t want me to.”

You assumed he was a eunuch. Fair. No normal man could be that energetic, that unhinged, that relentless without sacrificing something vital. There was no way a person who routinely set himself on fire for fun had enough blood left in his body to maintain… well, anything.

You’d once muttered aloud—after a particularly violent surge of his soul-linked thoughts.

“If this lunatic isn’t a eunuch, I’ll eat my shoe.”

To which the voice responded, chipper as ever, “Well, hope it’s chocolate-flavored, sweetheart, because I’m very much not a eunuch.” You rolled your eyes. Typical. He’d flirt with a cactus. It didn’t mean anything. But then, just after you bathed, exhausted and trying to sleep, he struck again.

The vivid mental image. Unsolicited. Graphic. Uncomfortably detailed. And so clear, it might as well have been seared directly onto the backs of your eyelids.

He wasn’t just not a eunuch. He was… a menace.

“Still think I’m not working, baby? Want me to describe how I’d use my very functional anatomy, or do you want a slideshow? Actually, hang on—let me tilt the angle. You’re not appreciating the scale.”

You tried to block him. You really did. But Ace had never once been deterred by logic, shame, or psychic boundaries. If anything, he doubled down.

“Hey, you’re the one who said I was built like a vending machine. Just thought I’d show you the snacks.”

You hated him. You hated how hot he sounded.

Hated that he was now giving himself full permission to know just how feral he was.

“Five minutes, sweetheart.

He could do things if you just sat still for five minutes.

He says it like a threat. Like a promise. Like he’s been waiting.

And you know he means it. Because every time you try to ignore him—every time you stubbornly pretend he’s not whispering sinful nonsense in your brain—he doubles down.

“Five minutes, sweetheart. That’s all I need. No interruptions, no running, no sassing. Just you, breathless and mine.”

You scoffed at first. Called him delusional. Told him to go flirt with a rock.

But Ace?

Ace just purred.

“See, look at how you're so pent up, baby. I told you. Five minutes, baby. Sit still, and I’ll show you what it feels like when someone actually knows you.”

His words crawl through your mind like fire, igniting every nerve. You try to push them away, but it's useless. Ace has never been one to leave you alone, not when he’s this determined.

He’s not just talking. He’s implying, and it’s maddening. You could feel it in the way he speaks, like every word is a thread pulling you closer to something you know you’re not ready for.

But god, part of you wonders if you’re wrong. What would it feel like to finally just give in? To stop pretending you aren’t as affected as he’s been telling you?

You’re teetering on the edge. One more push, and you’ll fall.

The worst part? You’re already halfway there.

“I’ve been dreaming about you for years. I’ve had practice.”

It’s maddening. Every time he gets quiet, you miss him. Every time he returns, you want to strangle him.

And now you’re terrified. Because someday, inevitably, you’re going to sit still. Just for five minutes.

And if there’s one thing you are when you’re mad and emotionally cornered, it’s petty as hell. You ghosted this man for the sin of saying boobies. Now, for trying to mentally fondle yours? You’re going nuclear.

So, you go on dates. Ace live-commentates them in your head like a sports announcer with ADHD.

“Bro. His hands are sweaty. You gonna kiss that? Ask him who his favorite pirate is. If it’s not me, stab him. What is this guy’s deal with anchovies? Are you safe??”

-Branching Out?-

You tried. Honestly, you really tried.

But you’re done. Emotionally. Mentally. Hormonally.

You’ve spent your entire adolescence haunted by the gremlin thoughts of a pirate you’ve never met. You’ve heard his opinions on soup, his guilty cries over cartoons, and more than one deeply concerning mental image involving rope.

So, you decide—quietly, pettily, desperately—that you’re going to break the bond by seducing a perfectly nice, boring man with great shoulders and zero mess.

Everything is set.

You’re wearing something cute but functional. You’ve got dinner plans. The guy is sweet. Polite. Zero war crimes. You even lit a candle, for atmosphere.

You’re about to lean in and kiss him when—

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

Ace’s voice slams into your skull like a full-volume spiritual airhorn.

You blink.

The nice man asks if you’re okay, looking at you like you might suddenly sprout a second head.

You smile. Politely. Internally, you are SCREAMING.

“NOPE. UNACCEPTABLE. THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE HE APOLOGIZES BEFORE HE CUMS. IS THIS BECAUSE I MENTIONED THE CRAB DREAM? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HIS MIDDLE NAME—DOES HE EVEN HAVE ONE? WHAT IF IT’S TERRY?”

You try to push him out. Focus. The man touches your hand gently.

“I WILL SET HIM ON FIRE. I HAVE FIRE HANDS.”

You exhale slowly and say aloud, “Please don’t set him on fire.”

The man blinks. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It is not nothing. It is a Sun God with no boundaries, loudly critiquing your sexual choices.

“I swear to GOD if he touches your waistband I’m going to hex his bloodline into extinction.”

You try again. Focus.

The man leans forward. He kisses your neck. It’s fine. It’s… nice.

And in your head?

“I HOPE HE FALLS OFF A DOCK TOMORROW AND GETS STUNG BY A SPITEFUL SHRIMP. YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIS HAIR. YOU’RE JUST DOING THIS OUT OF SPITE. YOU MONSTER. PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON BEFORE I WRITE A POEM ABOUT YOU OUT LOUD AND GET TATTOOED IN YOUR HONOR.”

The worst part?

You’re laughing. On your own bed. At the same time, a very confused man is gently trying to undo your shirt.

He stops, blinking. “Uh... are you... Okay?”

You wave him off. “It’s not you. I’m—ha—just mentally haunted.”

He leaves.

Kindly.

With a respectful bow (And possibly some trauma).

Two minutes later, Ace is smug and insufferable.

“So. Virginity status: Intact. Thanks to me. You're welcome. I’m a public service, honestly. Now that we’ve established that, can you PLEASE just let me take care of this properly and not with whatever beige sponge you dragged out of the alleyway?”

You groan.

He whistles.

“That better not have been a moan unless it was for me.”

You lie there glare at the ceiling, rage simmering.

“Don’t be mad,” Ace said, smug and unrepentant. “It’s not my fault you’re mine…And if I have to monologue in your head for six hours straight to keep you from letting some weak-jawed idiot put his hands on you, I will. Seriously, babe. All I’m asking is for you to wait until I can ruin you properly.”

You nearly screamed. Again.

And because you're a petty bitch with no control over things anymore, you decide to become mean. After all, it’s the only weapon left in your emotional arsenal.

You shut him out. Well, you try to. But you know it’s a cold war now. It’s inevitable. And your first strike? Completely accidental. As you stew in your indignation, a thought slips out—just a little too loud in your head.

“You’re like a damn stray dog that can’t stop following me. You’re lucky I don’t just leave you in the middle of the alley behind the Shimotsuki market and let the cats handle you.” You send a strong mental image of the said alley just to rub it in his face.

There’s a long, tense silence.

You feel something, but it’s so fleeting you can’t quantify it until he doesn’t reply.

Radio silence.

You’ve hurt his feelings.

You assumed he was pouting.

Which, to be fair, is on brand. He feels like the kind of man who would sulk about you not liking the exact ratio of buttons on his open shirt.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself this was good. Mental distance was good. Silence was peace. You didn’t need the constant horny peanut gallery in your brain, anyway.

You could finally focus. You could finally think.

You could finally wear skirts without worrying about mental commentary like: “Babe. That hemline? You’re gonna cause weather.”

And because you're a certified bitch, you can’t casually reach out. That’s what you tell yourself, anyhow.

You didn’t know how to reach out. You didn’t even want to. You just kept your mental door cracked open a titch and hoped he was somewhere being dramatic about the situation with a drink in hand.

But of course, that’s not what happened.

-The Slip Up-

He was not pouting.

He was tracking you.

Because here’s the thing. That little “alleyway” verbal slap and mental image of a sad little garbage can? That wasn’t just a mean thought. You hadn’t realized it, but you had just transmitted an image of your direct location straight to him.

It was a soul-bond breadcrumb. A signal flare. A bullseye on your very mortal, very sexy location.

And Ace? Ace is a feral golden retriever with boobs radar and emotional tunnel vision.

The second you let that thought leak? He started sailing.

You don’t know any of this.

You’re still sitting there, pretending you don’t care, when in reality, you’ve unknowingly painted a target on yourself. You don’t know that Ace, with his relentless persistence, is already closing in.

You have no idea that the moment your mental slip happened, he was already at the helm of his ship, grinning like a maniac.

And you’re still sitting there, blissfully unaware, believing that silence is your reluctant victory.

-Home Invasion-

A month later, he finally, finally speaks.

“Hey.”

You don’t answer. Is it because you were relieved and had tears in your eyes? Of course not, and if it were true, you wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course, you’re outside, being a human being and trying to be normal, so you look like a loon.

You glance around the street like someone’s going to see you talking to no one, looking like a total mess. You try to pull yourself together, pretending nothing's happening. Maybe you’re just a little shaken. But that’s fine.

You grit your teeth. “What do you want, Ace?”

“You mad I went quiet?”

You cross your arms in the street, and a grunt escapes. A small child asks her mother if your mad or constipated.

He laughs.

“No worries,, babe, no hard feelings.” And there it is. That smug edge creeping back into his voice.

Your desire to punch him returns in full force.

And you can hear the grin before he says the next words.

“Bet you missed me though.”

You can feel your eye twitching. This asshole. He's already won. Again.

“You’re impossible.”

“Aw, babe, that’s sweet. I missed you too.”

You take a deep breath and hold back the mental floodgates.

You try to ignore the fact that your heartbeat’s a little faster than normal, that you’re fighting the urge to scream because you know what's coming.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And it makes you want to throw your wallet at the wall and hope a racoon doesn’t scurry off with it.

Then his next words drop like a bomb.

“You know," he continues, voice oozing with smugness, "I was just busy, sweetheart. You know, tracking you. No big deal.”

You freeze. Your blood runs cold.

Your brain short-circuits.

Tracking you.

The reality hit you like a freight train, its weight crashing into your chest. You hadn’t just let him know where you were with that stupid, careless mental slip—he’d been actively following your every move for a month. The very thought felt like you’d been exposed in ways you couldn’t possibly come back from.

The worst part? You couldn't even fight it. You knew exactly what he meant. You knew. The heat of his gaze, the way his presence lingered like a shadow over your thoughts. It was all too familiar, too dangerous.

And it felt mortifying.

You’d been trying to escape him, trying to block him out, yet all it took was a single slip-up—an image, a mental breadcrumb—and he was back, right where he wanted to be.

Without even realizing it, you screamed inside your head, “YOU'RE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH.”

The laugh that followed reverberated through your mind, deep and smooth, like it had always belonged there.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

And then—you felt it before you saw him.

A heat, a wave that crashed against your skin like a sudden fever. The air seemed to shift. A flicker of danger, like lightning before the storm. It was that hurricane’s grin, that sun-warmed sin, wrapping itself around you like an invisible tether. You didn’t know whether to run or stay, but somehow, your feet were rooted to the ground.

And then—

“Hey.”

You looked up, and the world seemed to pause.

There he was. Portgas D. Ace.

Tall. Sun-kissed skin that looked like it had been burned by more than just the sun. His shirt was partially undone, revealing just enough of his chest to make your heart skip a beat. It looked like a war crime in the making.

And somehow, somehow, he was even hotter in person.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, mouth half-open, like a cat caught peeing on the rug. Was this real? Were you really standing in front of him, the man who had haunted your thoughts for weeks, months? You tried to form a sentence, tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless, “...You... You’re real?”

That smirk. That all-knowing, impossibly smug smirk. He tilts his head.

“You gonna say hi? Or just keep pretending you didn’t hurt your own feelings more when you’re trying to hurt mine?”

Your brain short-circuits.

You attempt something vaguely resembling a sentence, but it comes out more like, “What the hell are you—how did you even—this is illegal.”

He just smiles, all teeth and smugness.

“Soulmates, baby. And that pretty distinctive mental image you flung at me like a broom. Shimotsuki Market. Very unique. Very trackable.”

You’re about to hurl something—anything—at him, so you grab your wallet off your hip and throw it at him. It's a reflex, a desperate attempt to do something other than stand there like a dumbfounded idiot.

He catches it effortlessly. Not even a flinch. Not a hint of struggle. Just that damn smile, like he’s deeply pleased with himself, and unfortunately, his smugness is also hot.

You try to walk past him, determined to regain some semblance of control. But of course, he steps right in front of you, blocking your path without a second thought.

“You ghosted me for years, babe. Years. I didn’t even know if you had a face. Now you do. And it’s a really cute one. So. Hi.”

You freeze. The air between you crackles with tension. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. But you don’t.

You can’t. Not when he’s standing there, blocking the way out, with that impossible grin plastered on his face like he owns the world—and, apparently, your mind.

You want to hit him. Yell at him. But all you can manage is a shaky exhale, your pulse racing, your chest tight. You turn on your heel, desperate to escape, speedwalking back to some semblance of sanity. You shove past him, making it look like you’re in control.

“Rude,” he mutters, his voice laced with amusement. “But hot.”

You keep walking, determined. You’re going to get out of here. But of course, he follows.

“You’ve got a cute limp when you’re mad. Did you know that? We should talk. Or fight. Or make out. Up to you.”

Your hands ball into fists. But you don’t stop. You duck into the alley behind the shop, hoping the cramped space might give you an edge.

He follows you like a cursed Disney prince with a death wish. You whirl around, practically snarling.

“What do you want?”

He stops. The grin fades, just a little. He shrugs, casual, like he hasn’t just been stalking you for a month. But it’s not casual. It’s like he’s pulling back a little, trying to act nonchalant while wearing a smug look that says everything.

“I want you,” he says, his voice lowering. “I want to know your name. Your voice. What you actually sound like when you’re not yelling at me in your brain.”

For a split second—just one—you forget to be mad.

You forget you ever tried to run.

You’re staring at him now, and for a brief moment, there’s no anger, no desire to escape, just... him.

But then reality crashes back in.

And without thinking, you reach into your bag, grabbing the dried herbs you’ve been carrying for no particular reason, and hurl a handful straight at his face. You don’t even register what you’ve done until they’re in the air, the sharp scent of crushed rosemary and thyme filling the space between you.

You don’t wait to see the result. You sprint. Your legs move faster than your thoughts, driven by a primal instinct to get away.

Behind you, you hear him cough. Then, his laugh—rich and dark, echoing through the alleyway. “You really think you can outrun me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t even slow down. You’re not scared; you're simply trying to outpace the impossible situation you've somehow found yourself in. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat louder than the last. But the truth weighs heavily on you: you know you can’t outrun him.

He laughs again. It’s a sound that rumbles through the air, low and confident, like he’s enjoying every second of this chase. “You’re gonna be so much fun.”

The words shoot through you like lightning, but you keep running, pushing your body faster, forcing yourself forward, through the winding streets, away from the port, desperate for a glimpse of safety.

But he’s already there, lurking just out of sight, like a shadow that follows no matter how fast you move.

You dodge down side alleys, weaving through crowds of strangers, your mind running through possible escape routes, trying to think ahead. You board random ships, desperate for anything that might carry you away from him. You even bribe a fruit vendor with a handful of coins, praying it’ll distract him long enough for you to catch your breath.

And still, Ace finds you.

You dart into a nunnery, desperate for sanctuary, the heavy wooden doors slamming behind you like a barricade. You take a moment to collect yourself—twelve minutes, exactly, to hide in the silence. But when you peek outside, the inevitable happens.

He’s standing at the nunnery’s threshold, his grin wide and unrepentant, as if he’s never been bothered by anything in his life. He looks like he’s enjoying this chase a little too much, like the mere fact that he’s found you is some twisted game he’s winning. The game where you run, and he—always—follows.

You round a corner in a port city two islands later and hear it.

“You run real pretty, sweetheart.”

You freeze, your feet stumbling over one another. Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel like a punch to the gut, the sound of them lingering in your bones. You try to move, but your body betrays you. You trip over your own foot, slamming into a nearby barrel to catch yourself.

Then you spin around.

And there he is.

Ace. Leaning against a post, relaxed, shirt half-open like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His sun-kissed skin glows in the warmth of the midday sun, freckles scattered across his chest like stars in a dark sky. The sunlight seems to conspire against you, highlighting every inch of him, making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s effortlessly cool—effortlessly here.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t need to. He just stands there, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, looking at you like he’s already won.

“Tired yet?” he asks, his voice as smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

You throw a rock at him. It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He dodges it with ease, like he’s seen it coming a mile away. His smile only grows wider, smug and victorious. “Not even a little.”

Your pulse is thrumming in your ears, your muscles aching from the running, but you don’t stop. You take off again, sprinting into the bustling marketplace. The vibrant colors of the stalls blur past you as you run faster, heart hammering against your ribs.

But he’s still right there.

He follows you, but it’s different now. He’s not rushing. He’s moving with the casual grace of a predator, strolling through the crowd like he owns it. His eyes never leave you, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a brand, marking you as his.

And then the worst part happens.

The locals start noticing. They cheer, like they’re watching a game, their eyes tracking the two of you with growing excitement.

One woman shouts, “GET HER, PIRATE BOY!”

You wince, a knot tightening in your stomach as the crowd roars in approval. You can’t outrun the attention now. It’s everywhere. The eyes of the city are on you, and in a moment of absurd clarity, you realize they’re rooting for him.

“Great,” you mutter, grinding your teeth together, the sound of your frustration mingling with the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

Ace grins wider, clearly relishing the bedlam he’s created. The man never stops. Never slows.

Then someone starts placing bets. On you.

Great. Just great.

You vault over a fruit stand, your legs pushing you forward in a burst of desperate energy. It’s not graceful, but you’re fast—too fast to think. You hear Ace whistle, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Nice form. You always this athletic or is it just when you’re running from your problems—me—specifically?”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, and duck into a tavern kitchen, praying the staff are too busy to notice your disheveled, panicked entrance. The staff barely blinks as you slip past them, already halfway through the back door when—

He appears again.

Now he’s casually eating an apple, like he wasn’t just doing parkour across balconies and dodging flying fruit. He takes a slow bite, watching you with that maddening, self-satisfied smile, as if nothing had happened.

He doesn’t grab you this time. He doesn’t need to.

He just traps you.

He’s standing too close. That smile—sinful, smug, all-consuming—is never far from his lips.

“You done?” he asks, his voice low, amused.

You glare up at him, your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse quickening with the weight of it all. “No.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that crawls up your spine like heat. "Good."

And then, the moment you’ve been dreading.

He leans in.

It’s slow. Intentional. His breath brushes against your cheek. He whispers, his voice sliding against your ear like a stolen secret.

“Keep running if you want. I don’t mind.”

You feel the weight of his words, pressing in like a warning.

“Chasing you’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

And then the sucker punch:

“But eventually… sweetheart, you’re gonna trip.”

You freeze. For a moment, your knees go weak, and your brain short-circuits, like someone’s cut the power to your mind. You’re standing there, so close to him, your body fighting against every urge to lean in, to finally give in to the pull.

You almost kiss him. Out of spite. Out of sheer frustration. Almost.

Instead, you throw a spoon right into his face. It clangs loudly against his cheek, and you make a break for it, leaping through the window with as much grace as you can muster.

“WORTH IT!” he yells behind you, his voice loud and triumphant as it echoes down the alley.

You run. Because you can’t stop. You won’t stop. Not until you’ve lost him for good.

But in the back of your mind, there’s something else. A tug. A pull. The taste of his words still lingering in your thoughts.

-CAUGHT-

By nightfall, he’s still following you. Somehow. Unbothered by your death glares, your total silence, or the fifteen attempts you made to accidentally lead him into thorn bushes. He compliments the flora. Bleeds cheerfully.

You’re huffing, exhausted and borderline panicked, your legs aching from the constant running. You can feel your nerves fraying, the last vestiges of your patience worn thin. You’ve been at this for hours, your mind screaming at you to find a way to lose him, but no. There he is. Ten steps behind, like some kind of relentless golden retriever on a leash, with that insufferable, charming grin plastered on his face.

Ace looks pristine. The dirt doesn’t seem to cling to him. His hair’s a little tousled, sure, but it’s still perfect. His skin glows in the low light, and you can practically see the smugness radiating off him, his eyes dancing like he’s having the time of his life.

“You’re picturing me naked again, huh?” he says, his voice like molten honey, lazy and confident. “That’s the third time today. Just say the word, babe, and I’ll come up shirtless and apologetic.”

You growl low in your throat, gritting your teeth as you quicken your pace. This is not happening.

“Oh no,” he whispers in your mind, his voice slipping through like silk, dangerously smooth. “Was that... foreplay?”

You did not just…

The rage inside you flares, hot and violent, and you snap, throwing a rock at him. It’s the first thing you can grab, and the action is pure, unrefined anger.

You watch it sail through the air, and you’re almost satisfied with the aim, the sound of it connecting with him. But then you realize something.

He let it hit him.

You stand there, frozen in place, while he groans from the dirt, propping himself up on one elbow, still grinning like a damn idiot. And you, for some unknown reason, feel terrible.

He’s laughing.

“You know,” he says, brushing the dust off his clothes like this is the most fun he’s ever had, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, babe. You’ve got a hell of a right hook. Still hot as fuck though.”

You say nothing. Your brain has blue-screened. You’re physically incapable of processing this absurdity, this entire situation that you’ve been dragged into.

“You’re—wow. You’re stunning. And you’re standing there. And you’re not yelling at me or hating me or vanishing into mist.”

Still nothing. Your dignity is buffering, on its last thread.He blinks, his smile widening even more, if that’s even possible.

“Unless you are mist. I did hit my head pretty hard. Are you mist?”

You force the words out, your throat feeling dry. “No. Just disappointed.”

His grin widens—widens. Like he’s won something.

“Oh, thank god. That sounds like you.”

You try. You really try to stay composed, but he stands up, all sun-kissed skin and scars, the epitome of absolute menace. You feel your soul leave your body with a little ‘whoosh’ noise. And then, like he’s really not going to let you have any peace, he pulls a small, slightly squished bouquet from his pocket.

“I brought flowers,” he says, holding them out to you with an innocent grin that makes you want to scream. “Sat on them a bit during the fall. But they’re yours. Please accept them and also my eternal devotion.”

You take the flowers. Your hands are trembling, and you hate it.

You hate that you’re standing here, accepting flowers from this ridiculous, insufferable man. But, God, you hate even more that he’s standing there looking like a golden retriever with a heart the size of the sun—hot, fire-punching, fate-cursed, sweet as hell.

And worst of all? You hate that you like it.

You hate that you might even like him. Because, unfortunately, he’s a cutie. A dumb, fire-punching, fate-cursed cutie. And you’re just so screwed.

You flee, again.

Not in the dramatic, cloak-flapping, “I shall vanish into the mist” way you always thought you’d flee your soulmate—no, it’s more like a dignified power walk with panicked footnotes. You grab your satchel, muttering something about needing air, and fast-walk directly into the woods, hoping that the isolation of nature might give you a temporary reprieve from the storm of chaotic thoughts in your head.

But you’re not prepared for the soft voice behind you.

“Want me to carry that?”

You stop in your tracks. You turn, and there he is, right there, as if he’d materialized from the very forest around you. His freckles glow in the dying light, shirt offensively open like he’s trying to challenge every ounce of your self-control. The flowers—crumpled and hopeless—are still in your hand. And the other is already reaching for your bag like this is just a casual joint grocery run, not a soul-rupturing disaster.

“No,” you say firmly, pulling the satchel closer to you like it contains the last remnants of your common sense.

“Right,” he nods, unfazed. “Emotional support bag. Got it.”

You start walking again, forcing yourself to keep your pace. Your legs carry you with a tension that suggests both urgency and defeat.

And, of course, he walks beside you. Casually. Like this is just another walk in the park, like he hasn’t just smashed through a tree, declared eternal devotion, and handed you mashed flowers. Like this is his first time seeing your face, even though it feels like the most significant moment of your life.

He hums, lazily surveying the woods around you. “Nice woods. Quiet. Great for internal screaming.”

You grit your teeth, trying to ignore him, but the temptation to throw him off the trail and let your frustration explode is too great.

“You should leave,” you say, half as a request, half as a warning.

“I know,” he responds, too casually. “But I won’t.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “That’s called stalking.”

“That’s called fate,” he replies, totally unbothered. “Also, I’m very polite about it.”

You open your mouth, about to argue, when he cuts you off, adding with a teasing smirk, “I brought snacks.”

You close your mouth, your will to argue draining out of you like sand through your fingers.

The two of you walk in silence, the tension thick but oddly comfortable, until you finally reach your small cabin. You stop, spin around, and give him a dramatic flourish meant to intimidate—one last attempt at asserting some control.

“You are not staying here.”

“I accept your terms,” he says, already ducking through the doorway as though it’s his place now. “Great porch. Would die here.”

He pauses, looks at you, and for a split second, the smug grin fades. His expression softens, just a touch.

“Not that I’m planning to,” he adds, and something about the sincerity behind those words makes your chest ache.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling like you're losing a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. Because no matter how many times you tell him to leave, every inch of him belongs here.

-Emotional Turning Point-

He fits himself into your life like he was always meant to be your super handsome supporting male lead, living on the fringes of your porch and decency.

You’re not sure how he does it; how Ace, with all his chaos and charm, has somehow managed to worm his way into your routine, making himself right at home without even trying. But there he is, lounging in that damn chair by your door, making himself part of your world with a grin that says he’s here to stay. He’s everywhere. Leaning in the doorway, poking his head through the window, eating snacks with that infuriatingly content grin on his face.

It’s not that you invited him in. Not really. But it’s almost like he was always meant to be a part of this life, somehow. You can’t get rid of him, and—goddammit—you don’t want to.

Every time you try to get some peace, there he is, leaning casually against the doorframe with an offhand comment that somehow worms its way under your skin. He feels like your life now, like some permanent addition, wrapped in the scent of summer and smoke, never asking for permission, always managing to make you feel like you’re the one who’s been missing something.

And it drives you crazy. But not the bad kind of crazy. The kind where you’re frustrated because you don’t want to admit you like this new reality.

He's also so kind. So genuinely good in a way that makes you want to rip your own heart out for how much you’re falling for it. He doesn’t just show up with a smug grin and a million dumb comments. Though, hell, he does plenty of that too, but there’s something in the way he’s just… there.

The way he notices the little things. The way he makes sure you’ve eaten, even when you try to hide it. The way he doesn’t just barge in but waits for you to ask, like he knows when to push and when to let you breathe. And the most infuriating part? He does it without expecting anything in return. He’s not keeping score. He’s not holding anything over your head. He just… cares.

Which is how, eventually, you find yourself giving in. You tell yourself it’s because there’s no other place for him to sleep. He can’t keep taking the porch chair, it’s too awkward. You tell yourself it’s because he’s not that bad, right? He’s harmless, right? Maybe having him in the guest room won’t be so terrible.

But you know the truth. You know you’ve softened. You’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re frustrated, the way he listens without interrupting. You’ve caught him quietly fixing the little things you forget; your broken door lock, the pile of laundry you’ve been meaning to fold. And you’ve realized, with a sickening sense of vulnerability, that you’ve let him in.

The guest room? That was just the final step. You’re a pathetic push-over, no denying it.

Because now he’s there. In your home. In your life. Not just as the irritating golden retriever you thought he was, but as the person who somehow made himself indispensable.

You snort, unable to hold back the laughter, the absurdity of it all finally catching up with you.

Ace beams beside you, that ever-present, infectious smile stretching across his face as if he’s just made the greatest revelation of all time. The night settles into a quiet rhythm, the tension from the past moments fading as he settles himself into your life like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And Ace?

Ace stays.

He stays in the most inconvenient, inconveniently endearing way possible. His presence weaving itself into the fabric of your day like a persistent, sun-warmed thread that refuses to be untangled. No matter how much you try to brush him off, he’s there, in the most Ace way imaginable: full of warmth, full of disarray, full of ridiculousness.

And then, of course, he decides to hit you with it.

He tells you who his father is exactly one week after deciding not to die for vengeance and two days after setting your entire pantry on fire trying to toast bread with his hands. You’re crouched by the pantry door, diligently trying to patch up the mess he’s made, when he flops down beside you with that same blissful grin, the one that promises you’ll never know a moment’s peace.

“By the way,” he says, his voice smooth and casual, “my dad was the Pirate King.”

You freeze.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you slowly lower the patching materials, every muscle in your body tensing in complete shock.

The pause feels like an eternity.

Then, ever so slowly, you turn your head to face him. He’s still looking at you like he’s dropped a bombshell, waiting for the reaction. You blink once. Twice. And then, to his evident surprise, you simply say, “Okay.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, your voice steady, your expression a carefully controlled mask. “Okay.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something else, but then he hesitates. “Like… you don’t care?”

You take a deep breath, trying to recalibrate your thoughts. “Do you steal children?” you ask, your voice flat, as though that’s the most important thing in the world right now.

“No,” he answers, confused but amused.

“Do you bring Marines to my door?”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, feeling the tension in your chest finally begin to loosen. “Then I don’t care if you’re the son of the Pirate King, a dragon, or the sea itself with legs. Just stop bathing in front of me.”

Ace makes a sound, like a duck being struck by lightning, eyes widening with exaggerated innocence. “That was ONE TIME.”

“It was yesterday.”

“I thought you were asleep!”

“You were singing.” You throw a wet cloth at his face without even looking at him, too tired to care about how ridiculous this is. “Also,” you add, as you wipe off the dust from your hands, “you have a birthmark. Not that I meant to see it. But it exists. And it is shaped like a banana.”

“OH MY GOD.”

He screams into the rag, the sound muffled and exaggerated, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

You keep working, the soft smile on your lips betraying the amusement you’re trying so hard to hide. You do care.

You care about the way he burns toast but guards your garden like it’s a castle. The way he talks in his sleep, thinking no one can hear him, and makes enough food for two even when you insist you’re fine on your own. The way he tried to give you his favorite dagger like it was a friendship bracelet—like you were meant to have it.

But you don’t care who his father is.

That man is dead.

Ace is alive.

And in the end, it doesn’t matter who his bloodline is. What matters is the idiot sitting beside you, grinning like he’s won the lottery and setting fire to his shirt trying to impress you by flexing in the sun. The one who, despite all the madness, somehow makes you feel like this chaotic, unexpected life is exactly what you need.

You might be losing the battle, but you’re definitely winning the war.

Ace knew he didn’t have a chance the first time he heard you spoke, and frankly, he’s never been one to deny fate.

Ace is the kind of guy who falls fast, and hard. And over simple things. It’s not a grand speech that changes him. Not a fight, not a dramatic stand in the rain, not a desperate plea to spare himself.

It’s something much worse.

You do absolutely nothing.

You make tea. You sweep the porch. You hang up wet laundry with that same quiet, suspicious side-eye you’ve been giving him since he crash-landed into your life like a shirtless meteor of emotional disorder. You don’t flirt. You don’t cry. You don’t tell him not to go. You just exist.

Like you’ve done for years, on the edge of war and wonder. Quiet. Clever. Alive.

And Ace?

He shatters.

Because now that he’s here, now that he knows your smile in real time and not just as a phantom curl behind his thoughts, now that he knows how you brew tea when you're nervous and fake a snort-laugh when you're amused and sleep with one hand under your pillow like you're still ready to flee.

He realizes something awful.

He doesn’t want to die anymore.

And if he goes after Blackbeard alone, that’s exactly what will happen.

So one night, while you’re bent over your little garden, muttering at a weed like it owes you money, he sits on the porch with his legs dangling over the side. The moon makes him look soft. Barefoot. Real.

He says, casually, like it’s nothing:

“I’m not gonna go.”

You don’t look up. Your hands are busy, pulling the stubborn weed from the soil, but you can feel the weight of his words like a distant thunderclap.

“Go where?”

“After Teach. Not alone.” He scratches at his hair, a rare softness in his voice. “I was gonna. I thought I had to. But then you made soup. And yelled at the laundry. And looked at me like I was a half-cracked egg someone left in the sun too long.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of an immediate response. You just finish pulling the weed from the ground and set it aside, carefully, as if there’s a cosmic balance you don’t want to disturb.

“That was not a look of affection,” you say dryly, still not meeting his eyes.

“I know,” he grins, that damn grin that always makes your chest tighten. “But it made me realize I want to come back. I want someone to come back to.”

You stare at him now. Really stare.

And you see it.

Portgas D. Ace, fire-fist terror of the seas, Whitebeard’s reckless son, walking natural disaster.

He’s sitting still. And choosing to just live.

For himself. For his crew. And, impossibly, for you.

“I told Marco,” he says, quieter now, his voice almost unrecognizable with the vulnerability slipping through. “Let someone else bring him in. Or all of us. I’m not rushing into a trap because I want to feel like I deserve punishment. I don’t want to prove anything anymore.”

You blink. His words hit you like a wave, but the truth of it doesn't settle immediately.

“So you’re just... not dying?” You ask, the question slipping out without meaning to.

“Apparently,” he shrugs, still with that casual bravado he carries around like armor. “Real inconvenient. I’d emotionally prepped for a tragic death arc.”

You finally meet his eyes, watching as his smile falters just a little, just enough to let you see the weight he’s been carrying. And you realize, in that moment, you’re no longer looking at the man who sought death to prove something. You’re looking at a man who finally decided that maybe he deserves to live.

For the first time, Ace isn’t running. He isn’t running from his past, from his fate, or from the bedlam inside him.

He’s sitting still.

And that, in its own way, is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The silence between you is more than enough.

And as he sits there, beside you, in the quiet of your little garden and under the soft glow of the moon, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that Ace has made his choice.

He’s not dying for the sake of others anymore. Not for revenge, not for the memory of his father, not for any grand ideal.

He’s living. For himself. And, maybe, just maybe... for you too.

And for the first time, it feels like the weight of it all. His choices, his fate, the chaotic spiral he’s been trapped in has shifted. It’s lighter now, and somehow, so are you.

-The Climax-

The thing about being in love—actually in love—and having a soulmate who shares not just their heart, but their food, their dreams, and their increasingly unhinged commentary on everything from ocean weather to crab mating habits, is that eventually… you just give in.

You commit to the idea.

Not quietly. Not with grace. But with a dramatic, full-body sigh, hands thrown to the heavens like, “Fine, FINE, I guess I’ll be in love with you, you ridiculous golden retriever of a man.”

And that would be fine.

If he wasn’t so good at making you mad.

It starts innocently, as it always does, with Ace just being himself. Fixing broken stuff around your ship cabin without being asked. Replacing your rickety chair with one he definitely stole from somewhere nicer. Quietly fixing your shoes with leftover leather scraps. Roasting fish at sunrise and pretending it’s not for you, even though he offers the best cuts.

Which would be sweet. If he didn’t leer when you thanked him. If he didn’t lean in like, “See? You’d miss me if I died.”

Or worse.

“You like me.”

And the worst part? He’s not wrong.

You do like him.

You like the way he absentmindedly hums when the sea is calm. The way he throws himself between danger and his crew without hesitation. The way he frowns when your hands are cold and warms them between his palms without comment. The way he talks about you to others, thinking you’ll never hear.

(You always hear. The bond makes sure of it.)

So when he saunters up, shirt undone, grin weaponized, holding a handmade seashell hairpin like he didn’t just crawl out of the ocean like a romantic cryptid, you lose it. He’s always is taller than you realize, and broader too. All sun-kissed skin, tousled black hair, freckles like spilled sugar, and that damn grin—lazy, lethal, and soaked in the smug knowledge that he’s been living in your head rent-free for years.

You get mad.

Not annoyed. Not flustered.

Mad.

That soul-warming, spine-tingling, irrational kind of fury that only one person in the world can summon from the depths of you just by existing.

Because how dare he.

How dare he worm his way into your life with that lazy grin and those too-soft glances when he thinks you’re not looking. How dare he make your heart thunder like a war drum just by standing there, shirt half-buttoned, freckles glowing like sin under the sun. How dare he know—know—how to soothe your anger and ignite it in the same breath.

And that’s when it happens.

That sharp inhale. That white-hot glare. That moment of eye contact held just a second too long.

He tilts his head. Smirks. You see it in his eyes; the gleam, the silent countdown to disaster. You know that look. That’s the look that means he's about to say something so stupidly hot it could derail your life and you'd still thank him for the wreckage.

You take a step back, instinctively.

He steps forward, all loose limbs and barely restrained heat, the picture of someone who’s already won.

“Run,” he says, voice all honey and heat, “and I’ll catch you.”

You snap.

You lunge. Not for anything romantic—no. For a punch. A real one. Right to that smug, pretty face.

You miss.

He doesn’t.

He catches your wrist like he was waiting for it, like he dreamed of this moment. His fingers curl around yours, warm and unshakable. You meet his gaze, ready to spit fire.

But he beats you to it.

“You’re everything,” he breathes, low and cracked. Like it hurts. Like it’s truth against his ribs. “Oh no. I’m so in love with you. I’m gonna ruin everything.”

You should run.

But your knees betray you, turning soft and stupid like seafoam on a summer shore. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears, drowning out every sensible thought. And then—oh gods—he leans in, close enough for you to smell salt and smoke, and his fingers thread through your hair. He murmurs something too dirty for daylight, and that’s it.

You’re gone.

“Five minutes,” you rasp, voice ragged with want and fury. “That’s all you get. Bring the fire or shut up.”

What follows is not logical. Or polite.

The next thing you know, you’re in his lap, breathless and burning, yelling, “This is your fault!” while your hands twist in his hair like you’re trying to strangle the ocean. And he’s laughing—laughing—like he just robbed the world blind and left the moon as payment.

“This is a mistake,” you growl.

He grins, eyes glittering like treasure. “Then let’s make it twice.” It starts with sass. Sharp words. Quicker hands. Your teeth graze his jaw. His lips find your pulse. Buttons scatter.

But it escalates the second you grab a fistful of his hair and hiss, “I swear to god, if you laugh—”

And then, he moans.

You both freeze.

The silence is electric.

You stare at him. He stares at you. Your hand twitches, about to retreat.

He growls. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

“Oh,” he says, voice wrecked with sudden hunger. “Oh, we’re doing this now.”

He leans in. Breath warm against your ear.

“You like pulling hair? That’s cute.” His grin splits wide.“I like begging. Guess we’re both gonna be real happy tonight.”

What follows is a blur of limbs, heat, curses, and catastrophic choices. The kind of night you survive by setting fire to every good intention and riding the wreckage down together.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a surrender, a choice. And gods help you, he kisses like he thinks you belong to him. Because you do.

Clothes come off. Fast. Probably ruined. You don’t care.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a confession, a final surrender. Like you’ve been holding back the tide of him for years and now—now, finally—you’re letting it pull you under.

And gods help you, he kisses like a man who already knows.

Knows your mouth. Knows your breath. Knows the exact way you melt when someone touches you like a secret instead of a prize.

He tastes like heat and salt and promise. His hands are already on you; hot, greedy, reverent. Calloused palms splaying across your back like he's checking you’re real.

Clothes come off in flashes. Fast. Desperate. Buttons pop. A seam tears. His shirt gets tossed somewhere near the door and yours doesn’t survive the landing. He kisses the swell of your chest with something close to awe and mutters something that makes your toes curl.

You don’t care about the bed. You barely register hitting it. You only notice him, solid and searing and all over you.

Ace doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess. Every touch is sure. Every sigh you give him maps a path he already seems to know by heart.

And then he really starts.

And you forget how to breathe.

His stamina is, frankly, criminal. You lose track of time. Of position. Of your own name. You understand why other pirates don’t attack him without backup.

At one point, you're clutching at the sheets like they might save you. At another, you're biting his shoulder because apparently you’ve lost the capacity for language. Everything is hot and blurred and so good you could cry. You consider it. Then he bites your ear and you do.

You finally gasp, half-laughing, half-accusing: “Okay—okay, what the hell. You’ve done this before.”

He just grins, stupid and perfect and way too pleased with himself. “Nope,” he says, rolling his hips slow and smug, “I’ve just had years of theoretical training.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “...What?”

“On you, sweetheart.” He leans down, mouth against your throat. “You think I haven’t been preparing? Please. I’ve studied. I’ve visualized. I had flashcards.”

Your brain misfires. Your body, meanwhile, is betraying you entirely.

“I hate you,” you whisper hoarsely.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth dragging over your shoulder like a satisfied wolf. “Sure you do. Hate me with your thighs again.”

By the time your soul returns from orbit, you’re sprawled across the mattress like a saint mid-apocalypse. Your body feels like it’s been lovingly struck by lightning. Repeatedly. You manage a weak sound. He’s already draping a blanket over you with far too much tenderness for a man who just detonated your nervous system.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

Or black out.

Probably both

You wake up warm. Sated. And very, very naked in his arms.

You stretch, blink blearily, then pause.

Something’s wrong.

You are on a ship. The ship is moving.

You sit up too fast and nearly topple over. Ace hums behind you, still half-asleep. “Mm. Mornin’, baby.”

“…Was this five minutes?” you croak.

He yawns, kisses your shoulder. “Nah. Five was just to start.”

You scramble to sit up, fully panicking now, but he tugs you back down with one strong arm and starts kissing your neck like it’s not an international crime that you are being lovingly detained.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbles. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You blink. “Am I… kidnapped?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Let’s call it an extended honeymoon. With, like, minor hostage vibes.”

You hiss. He kisses your jaw. You slap his chest. He grins. You try to stay mad. You do.

But when he pulls you into his arms again, presses his forehead to yours and murmurs in your ear.

“We’re gonna make such a good team.”

Cue full body shiver shutdown.

You stop trying.

And somehow?

You don’t even want to escape.

-Honeymoon-

Cosmic Joke Status: Flambéed

You’re now stuck with a flammable himbo who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% commit arson for you just because someone looked at you funny.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to like it.

(Especially the part where he growls at people who flirt with you, like a very polite junkyard dog with abs.)

#gav story #one piece #romance #fire fist ace #ace x reader #ace x you #portgas d ace #soulmate #cosmic joke

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